CLARENCE; 


OE, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


BY  THE 

AUTHOR  OF  i!  HOPE  LESLIE,"  &c. 


l<  Return,  return,  and  in  thy  heart  engraven  keep  my  lore, 
The  lesser  wealth,  the  lighter  load— small  blame  betides  the  poor. 

BISHOP 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 

VOL.  I. 


PHILADELPHIA. 

f'AREY  &  LEA.—  CHESTNUT  STREE 

im 


A 


tout  hern  iJisirict  of  New  York,  to  wit. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  seventeenth  day  of  March,  inttK 
fifty-fourth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  Ame 
rica,  A.  D.  1830,  CARY  &  LEA,  of  the  said  district,  have  deposited 
in  this  office  the  title  of  a  book,  the  rig-tit  whereof  they  claim  as 
proprietors,  in  the  words  following1,  to  wit : 

"Clarence;  or  a  Talc  of  our  own  Times.  By  the  Author  of 
:  Hope  Leslie,'  &c.  &c. 

'  Return,  return,  and  in  thy  heart  engraven  keep  my  lore, 

The  lesser  wealth,  the  lighter  load— small  blame  betides  thee  poor.' 

BISHOP  HEBEK 
In  two  Volumes." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
entitled, "An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing 
the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprie 
tors  of  such  copies,  during  the  time  therein  mentioned."   And  also, 
to  an  Act,  entitled,  "An  Act,  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled,  An 
Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of 
Maps,  Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such 
copies,  during  the  time  therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the  be 
tiefits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  his 
torical  and  other  prints." 

FREDERICK  J.  BETTS. 
Clerk  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


Sleight  &  Robinson,  Printers,  New  York. 


v,  I 


v* 

e6 


DEDICATION. 

To  my  Brothers — my  best  friends,  the  following 
f>ages  are  inscribed,  as  a  tribute  of  affection,  by 

THEIR  AUTHOR, 


PREFACE. 


We  had  intended  to  affix  a  precise  date  to  the  fol 
lowing  narrative,  when  we  seasonably  recollected  the 
prudent  counsel  of  my  Uncle  Toby !  "Leave  out 
the  date  entirely,  Trim,"  quoth  my  Untie  Toby — 
"  leave  it  out  entirely  Trim,  a  story  passes  very  well 
without  these  niceties,  unless  one  is  pretty  sure  of 
'em !"  "  Sure  of  'em !"  said  the  corporal,  shaking 
his  head. 

The  reader  will  be  pleased  to  suppose  the  events 
of  our  story  to  have  occurred  at  any  period  with 
in  the  present  century,  and  will  have  the  indul 
gence  to  pardon  sundry  anachronisms,  particularly 
the  liberty  the  author  has  taken  in  anticipating  the 
masquerade  of  1829. 


t- 


\ 


CLARENCE; 

OR, 

A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


CHAPTER  I. 


;'Dis  moi  un  peu,  ne  trouves  tu  pas,  comme  moi,  quelque  chose 
Uu  ciel,  quelque  effet  du  destin,  dans  1'aventure  inopinee  de  notrc 
fonnoissanceT'  , 

MOLIEHE. 


IT  was  one  of  the  brightest  and  most  beautiful 
days  of  February.  Winter  had  graciously  yield 
ed  to  the  melting  influence  of  the  soft  breezes 
from  the  Indian's  paradise — the  sweet  southwest. 
The  atmosphere  was  a  pure  transparency,  a  perfect 
ether ;  and  Broadway,  the  thronged  thoroughfare 
through  which  the  full  tide  of  human  existence 
pours,  the  pride  of  the  metropolis  of  our  western 
world,  presented  its  gayest  and  most  brilliant  aspect. 

Nature  does  not  often  embellish  a  city  ;  but  here, 
she  has  her  ensigns,  her  glorious  waving  pennons 
in  the  trees  that  decorate  the  park,  and  the  entrance 
to  the  hospital,  and  mantle  with  filial  reverence 
around  St.  Paul's  and  Trinity  churches.  A  sud- 


8  CLARENCE;  OR 

den  change  from  intense  cold  to  rain,  and  then 
again  to  frost,  changes  and  successions  not  un 
common  in  our  inconstant  climate,  had  encircled  the 
trees,  their  branches,  and  even  the  slightest  twigs  thai 
bent  and  crackled  under  the  little  snowbird,  with  a 
brilliant  incrustation  of  ice,  and  hung  them  with 
countless  crystals — nature's  jewels — how  poor  in 
the  comparison  a  monarch's  regalia  ! 

The  chaste  drapery  of  summer  is  most  beautiful ; 
but  there  was  something  in  all  this  gorgeousness, 
this  ostentatious  brilliancy,  that  harmonized  well 
with  the  art  and  glare  of  a  city.  It  seemed  that 
nature,  for  once,  touched  with  the  frailty  of  her 
sex,  and  determined  to  outshine  them  all,  had  don 
ned  her  jewelled  robe,  and  come  forth  in  all  her 
queenly  decorations  in  the  very  temple  of  art  and 
fashion ;  for  this  is  the  temple  of  these  divinities,  and 
on  certain  hours  of  every  auspicious  day  is  abandon 
ed  to  the  rites  of  their  worshippers. 

But  the  day  has  its  successive  scenes,  as  life  its 
seven  ages.  The  morning  opens  with  servants 
sweeping  the  pavements — the  pale  seamstress  has 
tening  to  her  daily  toil — the  tormented  dyspeptic 
sallying  forth  to  his  joyless  morning  ride — the  cry 
of  the  brisk  milkman — the  jolly  baker  and  the 
sonorous  sweep — the  shop-boy  fantastically  ar 
ranging  the  tempting  show,  that  is  to  present  to  the 
second  sight  of  many  a  belle  her  own  sweet  person, 
arrayed  in  Flandin's  garnitures,  Marquand's  jewels, 
Goguet's  flowers,  and  (oh  tempora !  oh  mores !)  Ma 
nuel's  *  ornamental  hair  work  of  every  description.' 

Then  comes  the  business  hour — the  merchant, 
full  of  projects,  hopes,  and  fears,  hastening  to  hi? 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  9 

counting  house — the  clerk  to  his  desk — the  lawyer 
to  the  courts — the  children  to  their  schools,  and 
country  ladies  to  their  shopping. 

Then  come  forth  the  gay  and  idle,  and  Broad 
way  presents  a  scene  as  bustling,  as  varied,  and 
as  brilliant,  as  an  oriental  fair.  There,  are 
graceful  belles,  arrayed  in  the  light  costume  of 
Paris,  playing  off  their  coquetries  on  their  at 
tendant  beaux — accurately  apparelled  Quakers — 
a  knot  of  dandies,  walking  pattern-cards,  faith 
ful  living  personifications  of  their  prototypes  in  , 
the  tailor's  window — dignified,  self-complacent  mat 
rons — idle  starers  at  beauties,  and  beauties  willing 
to  be  stared  at — blanketed  Indian  chiefs  from  the 
Winnebagoes,  Choctaws,  and  Cherokees,  walking 
straight  forward,  as  if  they  were  following  an  ene 
my's  trail  in  their  own  forests — girls  and  boys 
escaped  from  school  thraldom — young  students 
with  their  backs  turned  on  college  and  profes 
sors — merry  children  clustering  round  a  toy-shop 
— servants  loaded  with  luxuries  for  the  evening 
party,  jostling  milliners'  girls  with  bandboxes — a 
bare  headed  Greek  boy  with  a  troop  of  shouting 
urchins  at  his  heels — a  party  of  jocund  sailors 
from  the  'farthest  Ind' — a  family  groupe  of  Al 
sace  peasants — and,  not  the  least  jolly  or  envi 
able  of  all  this  multifarious  multitude,  the  company 
of  Irish  orangemen  stationed  before  St.  Paul's, 
their  attention  divided  between  the  passers-by,  their 
possible  customers,  and  the  national  jibes  and  jokes 
of  their  associates. 

It  was  on  such  a  day  as  we  have  described,  and 
through  such  a  throng,  that  one  lonely  being  was 


10  CLARENCE;  OR 

threading  his  way,  who  felt  the  desolateness  oi 
that  deepest  of  all  solitudes — the  solitude  of  a 
crowd — the  loneliness  of  the  tomb  amidst  abound 
ing  life.  He  was  a  stranger.  No  one  of  all  that 
multitude,  high  or  humble,  saluted  him  ;  no  familiar 
eye  rested  on  him.  He  was  not  old,  but  the  frosts 
of  age  were  on  his  head,  and  his  cheek  was  indented 
with  furrows  of  *  long  thought  and  dried  up  tears.' 
There  was  not  one  of  all  the  gay  and  reckless,  con 
fident  in  happiness,  and  secure  in  prosperity,  that 
could  sympathize  with  the  sullen,  disappointed,  and 
wretched  aspect  of  the  stranger  ;  but  the  beggar  as 
he  passed  him  forgot  his  studied  attitude  and  mock 
misery,  and  the  mourner  in  her  elaborate  weeds 
threw  a  compassionate  glance  at  him.  The  stran 
ger  neither  asked  nor  looked  for  compassion. 
Though  his  dress  indicated  poverty,  there  was  that 
in  his  demeanour  that  would  have  repressed  in 
quiry,  and  seemed  to  disdain  charity.-  Something 
like  a  scornful  smile  played  on  his  features,  a  smile 
of  derision,  of  hostility  with  a  species  that  could  be 
thus  occupied  and  amused  ;  such  a  smile  as  a  show 
of  monkeys  might  extort. 

A  knot  of  ladies  stopped  his  way  for  a  moment. 
"  Was  you  at  Mrs.  Lay  ton's  last  night  ?"  asked  one 
of  the  fair  ones.  "  Indeed  was  I — something  quite 
out  of  the  common  way,  I  assure  you.  Nothing 
but  Italian  sung — nothing  but  waltzes  danced." 

11  Do  you  know  poor  Mrs.  Bruce  is  just  gone?" 
"  Poor  thing  !   is   she  ? — Where  did  you  get  your 
Marabouts?" — "  Is  not  that  hat  ravishing?" — "  Do 
you  know  Roscoe's  furniture  is  to  be  sold  to-mor 
row  ?"— "  Julia,  look,  what  a  sweet  trimming  !"— 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  1 1 

"  My  !  let  that  old  man  pass." — For  an  instant  the 
gaze  of  the  pretty  chatterers  was  fixed  on  the  ashen 
countenance  of  the  stranger,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  the  expression  of  his  large  sunken  eye,  as 
its  sarcastic  glance  met  theirs,  that  arrested  their 
attention  and  steps.  But  they  passed  on,  and  their 
thoughts  reverted  to  trimmings,  parties,  and  Mara 
bouts. 

The  stranger  pursued  his  way  slowly  and  pen 
sively  as  far  as  Trinity-church,  and  then  crossing 
Broadway  turned  into  Wall-street,  where  he  eyed 
the  bustling  multitude  of  merchants,  merchants' 
clerks,  brokers,  and  all  the  servants,  ministers,  and 
followers  of  fortune,  with  even  a  more  bitter  mental 
satire  than  the  butterfly  world  of  Broadway.  As 
he  reached  the  corner  of  William-street,  his  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  beautiful  boy  who  stood  at  a 
fruit-stall  stationed  there,  trafficking  with  an  ill- 
favored  old  woman  for  a  couple  of  oranges.  The 
love  of  childhood  is  a  tie  to  our  species  that  even 
misanthropy  cannot  dissolve.  Perhaps  it  was  this 
bond  of  nature  that  strained  over  the  stranger's 
heart ;  or  there  might  have  been  something  in  the 
aspect  of  the  boy  that  touched  a  spring  of  memory  ; 
a  faint  colour  tinged  his  livid  cheek,  and  the  veins 
in  his  bony  forehead  swelled.  The  boy,  unconscious 
of  this  observation,  completed  his  bargain,  and 
bounded  away,  and  the  stranger  perceiving  that  he 
in  turn  had  become  the  object  of  notice  to  some 
loiterers  about  the  stall,  purchased  an  apple  and 
passed  on.  In  taking  a  penny  from  his  pocket, 
he  dropped  his  handkerchief.  The  old  woman 
saw  it,  and  unobserved,  contrived  by  a  skilful  sweep 


12  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

of  her  cloak  to  sequester  it,  and  at  a  convenient 
opportunity  transferred  it  to  her  pocket,  saying 
to  herself  as  she  did  so,  "It  is  as  fine  as  a  spi 
der's  web,  a  pretty  article  for  the  like  of  him 
truly  ;  it's  reasonable  that  my  right  to  it  is  as  good  as 
his,"  and  with  this  comment  entered  on  the  records 
of  conscience,  she  very  quietly  appropriated  it. 

In  the  mean  time  the  stranger  pursued  his  way 
down  William-street,  and  the  little  boy,  who,  for 
some  reason  had  retraced  his  steps,  was  running  in 
the  same  direction,  tossing  up  his  oranges,  and 
amusing  himself  with  the  effort  to  keep  both  in  the 
air  at  the  same  moment. 

Intent  on  his  sport,  he  heedlessly  ran  against  the 
stranger,  dropped  his  oranges,  knocked  the  man's 
cane  from  his  hand,  and  nearly  occasioned  his 
falling.  Something  very  like  a  curse  rose  to  his  lips. 
The  boy  picked  up  the  cane  and  gently  replaced  it, 
saying  at  the  same  time,  with  such  unaffected  earnest 
ness,  "  1  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  that  softened  by  his 
manner,  and  perceiving  it  was  the  same  child  who 
had  before  attracted  his  attention,  he  replied, 
"  Never  mind,  boy  ;  pick  up  your  oranges."  He 
did  so,  and  looking  again  at  the  stranger,  who  to 
his  unpractised  eye  seemed  old  and  poor;  he  said 
modestly,  "  Will  you  take  one,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  no,  boy." 

"Do  take  one." 

"No,  thank  ye,  child." 

"  I  had  much  rather  you  would  than  not ;  I  don't 
really  want  but  one  myself." 

"No,  no;  God  bless  ye." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  13 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  an  old  Dutch 
domicil,  with  a  gable  end  to  the  street,  one  of  the 
few  monuments  that  remain  of  the  original  settlers 
of  our  good  city. 

The  steps  or  (to  use  the  vernacular  word)  the 
stoop  had  just  been  nicely  scoured :  the  boy  per 
ceiving  the  stranger  breathed  painfully,  and  moved 
with  difficulty,  sprang  forward  to  open  the  door. 
The  sound  of  the  lifted  latch  brought  out  an  old 
woman  who  appeared  by  the  shrill  tones  of  autho 
rity  and  wrath  that  issued  from  her  lips,  at  the  sight 
of  the  boy's  muddy  footsteps  on  the  clean  boards,  y 
to  be  the  "  executive"  of  the  establishment. 

She  stood  with  a  scrubbing  brush  in  her  uplifted 
hand,  and  the  boy  started  back,  as  if  he  expected 
farther  and  more  painful  demonstrations  of  her  an 
ger.  "  Stay,  stay,  my  child,"  said  the  stranger, 
14  and  sit  down  on  that  bench,"  and  then  turning  to 
the  old  woman,  "  hold  your  foul  tongue,"  he  said, 
"  and  let  the  lad  alone." 

"  Leave  him  be !  It's  my  own  house  and  my 
own  tongue,  and  neither  you  nor  any  other  man 
can  master  it." 

"  God  knows  that's  true,"  replied  the  stranger,  and 
without  wasting  any  farther  efforts  on  the  confessedly 
impossible,  he  very  unceremoniously  extended  his 
cane,  and  poked  the  woman's  garments  within  th^ 
door,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  shut  it  in  her  face, 
which  he  effected  without  delay.  Perhaps  the  boy 
laughed  from  instinctive  sympathy  with  the  power 
of  the  superior  sex ;  he  certainly  laughed  most 
heartily  at  its  timely  demonstration,  and  shouted 
again  and  again,  "  Cracky !  cracky !"  an  excla- 

VOL.  I.  2  * 


14  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

mation  that  the  young  urchins  of  our  city  often  send 
up,  equivalent  to  "  a  palpable  hit,  my  Lord  !" 

The  saturnine  features  of  the  stranger  relaxed, 
and  from  that  moment  there  was  a  tacit  compact 
between  him  and  his  young  friend,  who  seemed  the 
only  link  that  connected  him  with  his  kind.  He 
received  even  his  pity  with  complacency,  for  he  felt 
that  the  pity  of  a  child  was  tolerable,  because  '  with 
out  any  mixture  of  blame  or  counsel.' 
r  .  The  boy's  father,  Mr.  Carroll,  was  clerk  in  an 
/  insurance  office  opposite  the  stranger's  lodgings. 
Frank  came  daily  to  his  father's  office,  and  as  he 
passed  and  repassed  the  stranger's  door,  he  stopped 
with  some  good  humored  greeting,  or  to  share  with 
him  his  fruit,  cakes,  or  candy.  His  bonbons  were 
received  with  manifest  pleasure,  but  never  eaten,  at 
least  in  Frank's  presence,  and  when  he  inquired  the 
reason  of  this  extraordinary  abstemiousness,  his 
friend  would  answer,  "  I  keep  them  to  console  me, 
Frank,  when  you  are  away." 

Mr.  Carroll's  desk  was  stationed  at  his  office-win 
dow,  and  his  eye  often  involuntarily  glanced  from 
his  books  to  his  boy,  whose  benevolent  friendship 
for  the  forlorn  stranger,  he  secretly  watched,  and 
promoted,  by  permitting  him  to  loiter  in  his  society, 
and  by  daily  largesses  of  pennies. 

What  draught  is  so  delicious  to  a  parent  as  a 
child's  virtue  ?  What  spectacle  so  beautiful  to  man 
\s-  as  the  aspect  of  childhood  ?  childhood  flushed  with 
health  and  happiness;  its  buoyant  step,  its  loud 
laugh,  and  joyous  shout ;  its  little  bark  still  riding 
in  its  secure  and  guarded  haven ;  its  interminable 
perspective  of  an  ever  brightening  future?  And  in- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


15 


fancy — who  has  not  looked  with  prophetic  eye  on 
the  fair  face  of  infancy,  the  dawn  of  never  ending 
existence,  and  seen  in  -vision  the  temptations,  the 
struggles,  the  griefs,  the  joys,  that  awaited  the  un 
conscious  little  being  ?  Who  has  not  contemplated 
the  placid  minute  frame,  enveloping  such  capacities 
for  suffering,  and  not  longed  to  withhold  it  from  its 
fearful  voyage?  Peaceful  infancy!  must  those 
senses  that  now  convey  to  thee  but  the  intimations 
of  thy  new  existence,  become  the  avenues  of  all  good 
and  evil?  Must  these  pulses  which  now  beat  so 
softly,  harmoniously,  throb  with  passion  ?  Must  this 
clear  eye  be  dimmed  with  tears  ?  this  soft  cheek, 
this  smooth  brow  be  furrowed  with  care  and  sorrow  ? 
Even  so  ;  for  the  destiny  of  humanity  is  thine,  with 
its  joys  and  its  triumphs.  Enfolded  in  this  minute  ] 
frame  are  the  capacities  of  an  angel.  Go  forth 
then,  labor,  struggle,  and  knowledge  shall  fill  thy 
mind  with  light  of  thine  own — endure,  and  resist, 
and  from  the  fires  of  temptation  shall  rise  and  soar 
to  heaven,  the  only  phrenix — virtue. 


16  CLARENCE;   OR 

CHAPTER  II. 

"  Vous  avez  de  1' argent  cache." 


L'AVASE. 


THE  stranger  with  whom  Frank  Carroll  had  con 
tracted  so  intimate  an  acquaintance  was  known  to 
his  hostess,  and  to  Frank,  and  with  them  only  did 
he  appear  to  have  any  communication,  by  the  name 
of  Flavel.  Frank  was  satisfied  with  finding  that  he  was 
always  glad  to  see  him,  interested  in  his  little  wants,, 
attentive  to  his  prattle,  and  reluctant  to  part  with 
him  ;  and  his  Dutch  hostess  being  regularly  paid 
the  pittance  of  his  board,  felt  no  farther  curiosity  in 
his  conduct  or  history. 

This  remarkable  exemption  of  Dame  Quacken- 
boss  from  one  of  the  ruling  passions  of  her  sex,  was 
more  strikingly  illustrated  towards  another  lodger, 
who  had,  for  ten  successive  years,  rented  her  mise 
rable  garret.  All  she  knew  of  this  man  was,  that 
his  name  was  Smith,  that  he  was  employed  in  copy 
ing  papers  for  lawyers,  that  he  thus  earned  his  sub 
sistence,  that  he  practised  the  most  rigid  economy  (a? 
she  suspected)  and  accumulated  money.  Economy 
was  a  cardinal  virtue  in  the  eye  of  Mistress  Quacken- 
boss — the  virtue,  par  excellence,  and  she  reverenced 
Smith  as  its  personification.  Every  one  has  a  beau- 
ideal,  and  Smith  was  hers.  To  him  alone  was  she 
ever  known  to  defer  her  own  convenience.  He  was 
allowed,  whenever  he  wished  it,  a  quiet  place  in  her 
chimney-corner,  where  he  was  wont  to  warm  hk 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  1? 

benumbed  fingers  and  toes,  while  he  heated  on  herl 
coals  the  contents  of  a  tin  cup,  that  served  him  for  I 
tea-kettle,  shaving-cup,  gruel-pot,  and  in  short  was  \ 
his  only  culinary  utensil. 

The  indulgence  of  a  fire  in  his  own  apartment 
was  limited  to  those  periods  of  intense  cold  when  it 
was  essential  to  the  preservation  of  life,  and  then  it 
was  supported  by  the  faggots  and  coal-cinders, 
which  in  the  evening  he  picked  up  in  the  streets. 
His  apparel  was  in  accordance  with  this  severe  fru 
gality.  For  ten  years  he  had  worn  the  same  coat, 
hat,  neckcloth,  and  waistcoat,  and  he  still  preserved 
their  whole  and  decent  appearance,  from  his  "prudent 
way,"  as  his  landlady  called  it,  of  dispensing  with  their 
use  altogether  when  he  was  in-doors,  and  substituting 
in  their  stead,  in  summer,  a  cotton,  and  in  winter,  a 
well  patched  red  baize-gown.  Our  inventory  of  his 
wardrobe  extends  no  farther.  He  did  his  own  wash-"; 
ing  within  the  walls  of  his  little  attic,  and  they  told 
no  tales.  That  they  could  have  betrayed  secrets 
was  evident  from  the  extreme  caution  with  which  he 
always  locked  the  door  of  his  apartment,  whether  he 
was  in  or  out  of  it.  This  was  the  occasion  of  u 
semi-annual  altercation  with  his  landlady,  who  very 
reluctantly  conceded  to  him  his  right  to  an  exemp 
tion  from  her  house-cleaning.  With  this  exception, 
he  was  the  subject  of  her  unvarying  respect  and  com 
mendation.  "A  saving  and  a  thrifty  body  was 
John  Smit,"  she  was  wont  to  say  ;  "  and  if  there 
were  more  like  him  in  our  city  we  should  not  have 
to  pay  for  an  alms-house  and  a  bridewell,  beside 
having  the  Dominies  preaching  the  money  out  of 
our  pockets  for  an  Orphan- Asylum," 
2* 


18  CLARENCE;  OR 

She  magnified  his  virtue  by  contrasting  him  with 
Mr.  Flavel.  "  No  wonder,"  she  said,  "  that  lie 
had  come  to  the  fag-end  of  his  money.  Every  day 
he  left  sugar  enough  in  his  cup,  and  victuals  on  his 
plate  to  serve  John  Smit  a  week.  And  such  loads 
of  clothes  as  he  put  out  to  wash— a  clean  holland 
shirt  every  day — it  was  enough  to  make  a  body's 
heart  ache  !  and  clean  linen  on  his  bed  twice  a  week. 
True,  he  paid  for  it — but  she  could  not  abide  the 
waste,  how  long  would  his  money  last  at  that  rate  ?" 
Thus  she  passed  in  review  the  common  habits  of  a 
gentleman,  in  which  Mr.  Flavel  indulged,  though 
in  the  main  he  seemed  to  observe  a  strict  frugality. 
She  usually  concluded  her  criticisms  with  a  bitter 
vituperation  of  Mr.  Flavel's  and  Frank's  friendship, 
"What  business  had  he  to  bring  that  rampaging 
boy  there,  slamming  the  door,  and  tracking  the 
entry  ;  in  all  the  ten  years  John  Smit  had  lived  in 
the  house,  he  had  never  had  one  track  after  him." 
She  kept  up  a  sort  of  thinking  aloud,  an  incessant 
muttering  like  the  low  growl  of  a  mastiff  in  his 
dreams,  and  this  last  remark  was  repeated  for  the 
hundreth  time,  as  she  passed  by  Mr.  Flavel's  door 
on  her  way  to  Smith's  room,  and  with  a  harsher  em 
phasis  than  usual,  from  her  seeing  some  dark  traces 
of  poor  Frank's  footsteps,  and  hearing  his  voice  in 
a  merry  key  in  Mr.  Flavel's  apartment. 

Smith  had  appeared  to  be  declining  in  health  for 
some  months — for  several  weeks  he  had  rarely  left 
the  house,  and  for  the  last  week  Dame  Quacken- 
boss  had  not  once  seen  him.  She  remembered  the 
last  time  he  came  to  her  kitchen  was  late  in  the 
evening — that  he  was  then  trembling  excessively,— 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  10 

obliged  to  sit  down  for  some  minutes,  and  that  when 
she  had  lighted  his  lamp  for  him,  he  supplicated  her. 
in  the  quivering  voice  of  a  sick  or  frightened  child, 
to  carry  it  for  him  as  far  as  his  chamber  door.  She 
had  imputed  his  agitation  to  physical  exhaus 
tion,  and  all  unused  as  she  was  to  such  manifesta 
tions  of  pity,  she  had,  on  the  following  morning, 
deposited  some  soup  and  herb  tea  at  his  door,  with 
the  proper  intimations  of  her  charity.  Smith's 
emotion  was,  in  truth,  owing  to  a  cause  known 
only  to  himself,  and  far  different  from  that  naturally 
assigned  by  Mrs.  Quackenboss. 

He  had  come  in  that  night  as  usual  with  his  little 
bundle  of  sticks  and  shavings,  and  was  groping  his 
way  up  stairs  with  his  cat-like  inaudible  tread,  when 
Mr.  Flavel  with  a  lighted  lamp  in  his  hand,  wrap 
ped  in  his  white  dressing-gown,  and  looking  more 
ghastly  than  usual,  passed  from  his  room  across  the 
entry  to  the  parlor,  and  after  remaining  there  for  a 
moment,  returned,  without  perceiving  Smith,  who  re 
mained  riveted  to  the  spot  where  Mr.  Flavel  had 
first  struck  his  sight.  To  Smith's  excited  imagina 
tion,  he  appeared  a  spirit  from  the  dead,  and  a 
spirit  invested  with  a  form  and  features  of  all  hu 
man  shapes,  to  him  the  most  terrible. 

From  that  night  he  had  never  left  his  room,  and 
his  landlady  deemed  it  prudent  to  defer  no  longer 
investigating  his  condition,  lest  it  should  be  be 
trayed  in  the  mode  Hamlet  suggested  for  the  dis 
covery  of  Polonius.  She  found  his  door,  as  she 
expected,  locked.  She  knocked  and  called — there 
was  no  answer.  She  screamed,  but  in  vain ;  not 
the  faintest  sound,  or  sign  of  life,  was  returned; 


"20  CLARENCE;   Oil 

and  concluding  the  poor  man  was  dead,  and  with 
the  usual  vulgar  fear  of  encountering  the  spectacle 
of  death  alone,  she  hastily  descended  the  stairs,  and 
communicating  her  apprehensions  to  Mr.  Flavel. 
she  begged  he  would  stand  by,  while  she  forced 
open  the  door.  He  attended  her,  followed  by 
Frank.  The  weak  fastenings  gave  way  at  once  to 
her  forcible  pressure,  and  they  all  entered  the  apart 
ment  so  long  and  so  sedulously  concealed.  Smith 
was  living,  but  insensible,  and  apparently  in  a  deep 
lethargy.  Nothing  could  be  more  miserable  and 
squalid  than  the  room,  its  furniture,  and  tenant. 
He  lay  on  a  cot-bed,  tucked  so  close  under  the  in 
clining  ceiling,  that  he  seemed  hardly  to  have 
breathing  space.  There  was  no  linen  on  his  bed, 
and  his  coverings  were  made  of  shreds  and  patches, 
which  he  had  himself  sewn  together.  A  little  pine- 
table,  with  an  ink-stand  carefully  corked,  crossed 
by  two  pens  worn  to  the  stump,  and  as  carefully 
wiped,  stood  by  his  bed-side.  A  broken  basin, 
mug,  tea-cup,  and  plate,  bought  at  a  china-shop  for 
a  few  pennies — a  single  chair,  the  bottom  of  which 
he  had  curiously  repaired  with  list,  and  a  small 
box-stove,  comprised  his  furniture.  His  thread 
bare  garments  were  hanging  around  the  room.  A 
six-penny  loaf,  half-eaten  and  mouldy,  a  dried  ner 
ving,  and  a  few  grains  of  rice  rolled  in  a  paper, 
and  tied,  lay  on  the  table. 

Quiescent  as  the  landlady's  curiosity  had  hitherto 
been,  it  was  now  called  into  action  by  what  usually 
proves  a  sedative — the  means  of  present  gratifica 
tion.  After  a  glance  at  the  sick  man,  she  made  a 
rapid  -survey  of  the  room,  and  holding  up  both 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  21 

hands,  exclaimed,  "  John  Smit's  a  fool !  and  that's 
what  I  did  not  take  him  for — lock  his  door  indeed ! 
he  might  as  well  bolt  and  bar  a  drum-head — a  pretty 
spot  of  work,  truly,  to  have  to  wrench  off  a  good 
lock  to  break  our  way  into  this  tomb,  where  there's 
nothing  after  all  but  his  old  carcass  ! — Ah !  what's 
this  ?"  A  new  object  struck  her  eye,  and  stooping 
down  she  attempted  to  draw  from  beneath  the  bed 
an  iron  box ;  she  could  not  move  it ;  her  predilec 
tion  was  confirmed;  her  long  cherished  faith  in 
Smith's  worldly  wisdom  re-established,  and  looking 
up  with  an  indescribable  expression  of  satisfaction 
and  triumph,  and  laughing  outright,  for  the  first 
time  for  many  a  year,  she  exclaimed,  "  Johny  a' n't 
a  fool  but!" 

Her  look  appealed  to  Mr.  Flavel.  He  did  not 
notice  it.  Frank  enforced  it  by  taking  hold  of  his 
arm,  and  saying,  "See,  see,  Mr.  Flavel!"  But 
Mr.  Flavel  saw  but  one  object.  His  eyes  were 
riveted  to  Smith.  For  a  moment  he  gazed  in 
tently,  and  then  uttered  his  thoughts  unconsciously 
and  in  a  half  suffocated  tone — "  Good  God ! — It 
cannot  be — and  yet  how  like!  He  removed 
the  black  and  matted  lock  from  Smith's  forehead. 
It  was  wrinkled  and  furrowed.  u  Seven  and  twenty 
years  might  do  this — No,  no,  it  is  impossible." — 
He  turned  away  and  covered  his  eyes,  and  then 
again  turned  towards  the  dying  man,  and  exclaimed 
vehemently,  "It  is — it  is — it  must  be  he!"  and 
putting  his  lips  down  to  the  dull  ear,  he  shrieked  in 
a  voice  of  agony.  «  Savil !  Savil!"  The  poor 
wretch  made  a  convulsive  struggle,  half  opened  his 
eyes,  and  looked  mistily  on  Mr.  Flavel.  A  slight 


'22  CXARENCE;  on 

shudder  passed  over  his  frame,  and  he  sunk  again 
into  his  deathlike  sleep. 

The  landlady  now  interposed,  and  rudely  seizing 
Mr.  FlavePs  arm,  "Clear  out!"  she  said,  "  what 
right  have  you  to  be  tormenting  him  ?"  Mr.  Flavel 
shook  her  from  him,  and  again  bending  over  Smith, 
he  murmured,  "  No,  no,  it  cannot  be — I  was  wild 
to  hope  it — and  if  it  were — oh  God !"  He  turned 
away  abruptly,  and  said  hastily,  "Come,  Frank — 
come  down  stairs  with  me.  Frank  followed  him, 
and  when  he  was  again  in  his  own  room,  he  took 
the  boy  in  his  arms,  and  wept  aloud.  Frank  gazed 
at  him  in  silence. .  To  a  child  there  is  something 
unnatural  and  appalling  in  the  tears  of  a  man,  but 
the  benignant  tenderness  of  the  boy,  however, 
soon  surmounted  every  other  feeling.  He  wiped 
away  Mr.  Flavel' s  tears,  and  caressed  and  soothed 
him ;  and  then  whispering,  as  if  he  were  afraid  to 
speak  aloud  on  a  subject  that  had  called  forth  so 
much  emotion,  "  had  I  not  best,"  he  asked,  "  run 
and  beg  Dr.  Eustace  to  come  and  see  that  man  ?" 
"  Dr.  Eustace !  who  is  he  ?" 
"  Our  doctor — mother's  doctor — the  best  doctor 
in  New  York!" 

"  God  bless  you — yes — why  did  not  I  think  of 
it  ? — tell  him  1  beg  him  to  come  instantly.  No, 
say  nothing  of  me — here  Frank — say  nothing  to 
any  one,  not  to  your  father  even,  of  what  you  have 
seen  to-day — but  this  doctor  will  not  come  to  this 
poor  devil — what  shall  we  do? — I  have  money 
enough  to  pay  him  for  half  a  dozen  visits — tell  him 
so,  Frank." 

"Dr.  Eustace  does  not  care  for  the  money,  sir;" 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  23 

said  Frank,  as  he  ran  off,  with  all  possible  haste,  on 
his  benevolent  errand. 

"Poor  boy,"  thought  Mr.  Flavel,  "you  must 
yet  learn  that  there  are  no  disinterested  services  in 
this  world !"  The  doctor  arrived  in  a  few  moments, 
but  not  before  Mr.  Flavel  had  disciplined  himself 
into  perfect  self-command.  As  the  doctor  came 
from  Smith's  room,  Mr.  Flavel  stopped  him  in  the 
entry,  and  inquired  if  the  poor  man  were  still  alive. 
The  doctor  said  "yes,"  and  that  he  thought  it  pos 
sible  he  might  "be  revived  for  a  short  time,  as  he  had 
probably  fallen  into  his  present  state  from  extreme 
exhaustion  and  helplessness. 

"  You  hear  what  the  doctor  says,"  said  Mr.  Fla 
vel  to  the  landlady,  who  was  also  listening  to  the 
doctor's  report — "  do  your  utmost — if  the  man  dies 
now,  he  dies  from  your  neglect." 

The  landlady  put  in  her  protest,  and  a  just  one, 
but  Mr.  Flavel  did  not  stay  to  listen  to  it. 

Either  his  reproach,  or  the  thought  of  the  strong 
box,  which,  it  had  already  occurred  to  dame  Quack- 
enboss,  might,  in  default  of  heirs  at  law,  escheat  to 
the  mistress  of  the  tenement,  roused  all  her  energies. 
She  prepared  a  warm  bath,  and  did  every  thing 
else  the  physician  required,  in  the  shortest  possible 
time.  The  warm  bath  and  powerful  stimulants 
produced  such  an  effect  on  the  patient,  that  the  stu 
por  gradually  subsided,  and  when  the  physician  saw 
him  in  the  evening,  he  was  restored  to  conscious 
ness.  This  the  doctor  told  Mr.  Flavel,  and  said  at 
the  same  time,  "  the  man  must  have  died  but  for 
the  assistance  given  him  to-day — the  discovery  of 
his  situation  was  quite  providential." 


24  CLARENCE;  OR 

"  Presidential !"  echoed  Mr.  Flavel  in  a  sar 
castic  tone,  "the  same  Providence  has  interposed 
that  left  the  poor  wretch  pining  in  desertion,  and 
exposed  to  the  accidents  of  starvation  and  death !'"' 

11  Yes,  Sir,"  replied  the  physician,  "  the  same 
Providence.  I  suspect,  if  we  could  read  this  man's 
history,  we  should  find  that  he  is  now  enduring  the 
penalty  which  the  wise  government  of  Providence 
has  affixed  to  certain  offences.  I  infer  from  all  I 
can  learn  from  your  landlady  and  from  my  own  ob 
servation,  that  this  Smith  is  a  miser,  and  that  he  is 
dying  of  self-inflicted  hardships,  which  have  induced 
a  premature  old  age.  I  do  not  believe  he  is  more 
than  fifty." 

"Fifty!  good  God!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Flavel,  in 
a  voice  so  startling  that  Dr.  Eustace  turned  on  him  a 
look  of  surprise  and  inquiry;  but  he  instantly  recover 
ed  his  self-possession,  and  added,  "  are  you  skilled? 
are  you  accurate,  doctor,  in  your  observation  of 
ages  ? — The  man  seemed  to  me  much  older." 

"  I  am  not  infallible,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  but 
my  profession  naturally  leads  me  to  make  nice  ob 
servations  on  the  subject.  I  perceive  in  this  man 
indications  of  vigor  quite  incompatible  with  ad 
vanced  age  in  his  present  circumstances.  The  first 
thing  he  did  when  he  recovered  a  glimmering  of 
consciousness,  was  to  look  for  a  key  which  was 
under  him  in  the  bed — he  grasped  it  and  held  it 
firmly  clenched  in  his  hand — so  firmly  that  it  would 
have  been  difficult  to  have  wrested  it  from  him.  A 
painter  could  hardly  have  invented  a  better  illustra 
tion  of  miserliness  than  the  apartment  of  this  poor 
wretch — the  iron  chest  peeping  from  beneath  his 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  25 

bed,  and  its  key  still  tenaciously  held  by  the  fa 
mished,  dying  creature.  My  blood  ran  cold  as  I 
looked  at  him.  This  evening  his  reason  is  stronger, 
and  I  have  persuaded  him,  as  the  fear  of  dropping 
the  key  increased  his  restlessness,  to  let  me  attach  it 
to  a  cord  and  fasten  it  around  his  body." 

"Do  you  think  him  then  quite  rational  this 
evening  f" 

"  Perfectly — perfectly  himself,  I  fancy.  I  pro 
posed  to  send  a  nurse  to  him,  but  he  protested  most 
vehemently  against  it,  repeating  again  and  again 
that  he  was  a  'poor  man — a  poor  man — nurses 
were  extortionate.'  I  told  him  I  would  defray  the 
expense  for  a  night  or  two,  for  I  thought  I  should 
sleep  better  if  I  had  not  left  him  to  die  alone,  but 
he  still  remonstrated,  saying  that  '  a  nurse  would 
burn  a  light  all  night ;  would  eat  up  all  he  had ; 
would  keep  a  fire ;' — and  on  the  whole  I  thought  so 
violent  an  interruption  of  his  usual  habits  might  do 
him  more  harm  than  good." 

"  He  is  then  entirely  alone  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  nothing  can  make  any  material  dif 
ference  in  his  condition.  This  is  but  a  temporary 
revival.  The  man  must  die  in  the  course  of  a  day 
or  two."  The  conversation  was  now  turned  from 
Smith,  but  Dr.  Eustace  still  prolonged  his  visit. 
He  found  Mr.  Flavel  far  more  stimulating  to  his 
curiosity,  than  the  poor  mendicant  miser.  He  had 
a  variety  of  knowledge,  a  keenness  of  perception, 
a  lucid  and  striking  mode  of  expressing  his 
thoughts,  and  withal,  a  vein  of  deep  and  bitter 
misanthropy,  that  indicated  a  man  of  marked  cha 
racter  and  singular  experience.  The  doctor's  pro- 

VOL.  I.  3 


26  CLARENCE;    OR 

fessional  interest,  too,  was  awakened.  He  saw  Mr 
Flavel  was  suffering  from  severe  physical  derange 
ment,  and  he  hinted  to  him  the  necessity  of  some 
medical  application,  which  Mr.  Flavel  declined,  in 
timating  at  the  same  time,  his  complete  infidelity  in 
the  science  of  medicine.  The  doctor  soon  after 
took  his  leave,  with  a  somewhat  abated  estimation 
of  his  new  acquaintance's  sagacity.  Few  men, 
however  liberal,  can  bear  to  have  their  profession 
disparaged. 

At  his  usual  hour  Mr.  Flavel  retired  to  bed,  but 
not  to  sleep — the  strange  and  strong  emotions  of  the 
morning  had  been  soon  subdued,  and  his  subsequent 
reflection  had  convinced  him  they  must  be  ground 
less.  These  reflections  were  in  daylight,  when 
reason  bears  sway ;  but  alone,  in  the  stillness,  dark 
ness,  and  deep  retirement  of  the  night,  his  imagina 
tion  resumed  its  ascendancy.  That  face,  so  well 
known,  so  well  remembered,  so  changed,  and  yet 
the  same,  haunted  him.  The  bare  possibility  that 
it  was  the  same,  had  awakened  passions  that  he  had 
believed  dead  within  him.  He  passed  in  review  the 
last  few  weeks  of  his  life.  He  was  himself  changed 

-  he  no  longer  '  dwelt  in  despair.'     His  soul  had 

revived  to  kindly  influences.  The  instrument,  that 
he  believed  broken  and  ruined,  and  that  had  sent 
forth  nothing  but  discord  and  wild  sounds,  had 
responded  music  to  the  touch  of  nature— to  the 
Breath  of  sympathy.  "What  was  it  in  this  boy, 
whom  he  had  so  recently  known,  that  had  melted 
'  his  frozen  affections?  what,  in  his  mild  tender  eye, 
that  pierced  to  the  very  depths  of  his  soul  ?" 
thoughts  again  reverted  to  the  strange  agitations  of 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  27 

the  morning — and  again,  the  electric  flash  of  hope 
darted  athwart  his  mind.  He  started  from  his  bed. 
"  Are  these  the  mysterious  intimations  of  Provi 
dence? — Providence!  If  such  a  power  exists,  it 
has  been  to  me  oppressive — obdurate.  Have  I  not 
ceased  to  dread  it  ? — to  believe  it  ?  Still  the  web 
of  nursery  superstition  clings  about  me.  I  had 
dreams  last  night  of  the  long  dead — forgiven — for 
gotten — forgotten  !  'Singular,  that  such  dreams 
should  be  followed  by  this  strange  event !  Am  I 
floating  ?  I  must  still  this  throbbing  heart.  I  will 
see  him  again,  though  the  opened  wound  should 
bleed  to  death  !"  Thus  deciding,  and  obeying  an 
impulse  of  inextinguishable  hope,  Mr.  Flavel  took 
his  lamp,  wrapped  his  dressing  gown  about  him, 
and  cautiously  ascended  to  Smith's  apartment.  He 
found  the  room  in  darkness.  He  closed  the  door 
after  him  and  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
The  sick  man  was  in  a  sweet  slumber,  but  the  sud 
den  light  of  the  lamp  falling  directly  across  his 
face  awakened  him.  At  first  he  seemed  confused, 
doubtful  whether  he  still  dreamed,  or  whether  the 
apparition  before  him  were  a  reality  or  a  spectre, 
but  in  an  instant  the  blood  mounted  into  his  pallid 
face,  and  he  made  an  effort  to  shriek  for  help.  The 
sound  died  on  his  powerless  lips — drops  of  sweat 
burst  out  on  his  forehead— he  stretched  out  his  arm 
as  if  to  repel  the  figure,  and  articulated  in  the  lowest 
whisper — "  Not  yet !  I  am  not  dead  yet !  oh  don't 
come  yet !" 

"  Fool ! — madman  ! — What  do  you  take  me  for  ? 
I  am  a  living  man — speak,  speak  to  me  once  more." 
The  affrighted  wretch  was  confounded  with  a  min- 


28  CLARENCE;  OR 

gled  horror  of  the  dead,  and  dread  of  the  living — 
the  terrors  of  both  worlds  were  before  him — his  eyes 
were  glued  to  Mr.  Flavel,  and  his  features  seemed 
stiffening  in  death.  "  Oh,  speak  to  me  !"  reiterated 
Mr.  Flavel,  agonized  with  the  apprehension  that  he 
was  already  past  utterance.  "  Speak  one  word — 
am  I  deceived  ? — or  are  you  John  Savil  ?" 

"  Clarence!"  murmured  the  dying  man. 

Flavel  staggered  back  and  sunk  into  the  chair — 
a  deadly  faintness  came  over  him,  but  in  one  instant 
more  the  tide  of  life  rushed  back,  and  he  darted  to 
the  bed,  crying,  "  Tell  me,  is  he  living?" 

The  poor  wretch  made  an  effort  to  reply,  but  the 
accents  died  on  his  lips — there  was  a  choaking 
rattling  in  his  throat — he  attempted  to  sign  with  his 
hand,  but  the  weight  of  death  was  on  it,  and  he 
could  not  move  a  finger — he  fixed  his  eye  on  Flavel 
— its  eager  glance  spoke — but  was  there  life  or 
death  in  its  language  ? — who  should  interpret  it  ? 

Flavel  bent  over  him  in  torturing,  breathless 
expectation.  The  faint  hue  of  life  faded  from  his 
lips.  There  was  a  slight  convulsion  in  his  throat, 
and  his  eyes  closed.  Mr.  Flavel  rushed  to  the  door 
and  called  aloud,  again  and  again,  for  help — no 
one  answered — no  one  heard  him. 

Again  he  returned  to  the  bed  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  dying  man's  heart.  It  was  still  feebly  beat 
ing.  "  There  is  yet  a  spark  of  life,"  he  thought. 
"It  may  be  possible  once  more  to  revive  him." 
A  bottle  of  spirits  of  hartshorn  was  standing  on 
the  table ;  he  dashed  it  over  his  face,  bosom,  and 
hands.  Smith  gasped,  and  unclosed  his  eyes.  Mr. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  29 

Flavel  administered  a  powerful  stimulant — .the  effect 
seemed  miraculous — th«  mysterious  energies  of  na 
ture  were  quickened — consciousness  returned — and 
after  repeated  efforts,  he  articulated,  "  he  lives — 
wait." 

Mr.  Flavel  pressed  both  his  hands  on  his  own  heart, 
which  seemed  as  if  it  would  leap  from  his  bo 
som  ;  and  warned  by  the  effect  of  his  first  impetuo 
sity,  he  attempted  to  be  calm,  and  to  say  delibe 
rately,  "  Savil,  I'll  forgive  you  every  thing,  if  you'll 
rouse  your  powers  to  tell  me  all  you  know."  He 
again  offered  the  medicinal  draught. 

The  dying  man  received  it  passively,  and  shortly 
after  said,  "  1  am  too  far  gone  to  tell  it !" 

"  God  help  me  !"  exclaimed  Flavel,  in  utter  de- 
cpair. 

"It  is  all  written,"  murmured  Smith. 

"  Written  ! — where  ?" 

"Oh!  do  not  speak  so  loud  to  me.  It  is  all 
written  ;  when  I'm  gone,  you'll  find  it.1' 

"  Where  ? — tell  me  where  !" 

"  In  my  iron  box." 

What  the  physician  had  said  of  the  box  and  key 
flashed  upon  Mr.  Flavel' s  mind ;  he  instantly  dragged 
the  box  from  beneath  the  bed,  threw  open  the  blan 
kets,  and  tore  the  key  from  the  skeleton  body. 

The  ruling  passion,  strong  in  death,  nerved 
Smith  with  supernatural  strength.  He  raised  him 
self  in  the  bed — "  Oh,  don't  take  my  money,"  he 
cried — "  there  is  not  much^-'tis  but  such  a  little 
while  I  want  it— it  is  my  all.  Oh,  there's  somebody 
coming — they'll  gee  it — they'll  see  it — Oh,  shut  the 
box!" 

3* 


30  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

Mr.  Flavel  did  not  hear  him ;  he  heard  nothing* 
saw  nothing  but  a  manuscript,  which  he  seized,  and 
dropping  the  lid  and  turning  the  key,  he  threw  it  on 
the  bed,  and  left  the  apartment,  without  seeing  the 
|  tears  of  joy  that  streamed  from  the  miser's  eyes,  as, 
sinking  back,  he  breathed  out  his  last  breath,  mut 
tering,  "  My  money  is  safe !" 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  31 


CHAPTER  III. 

Come  and  sit  down  by  me ! 

My  solitude  is  solitude  no  more.         MANFHED. 

"  Who  is  this  Mr.  Flavel,  Frank,  that  you  make 
such  an  ado  about?"  asked  Mrs.  Carroll,  as  she 
was  adjusting  a  napkin  over  a  cold  partridge  which 
her  son  had  begged  for  his  friend. 

"  Who  f  why,  mother,  you  know — the  person 
who  lives  in  William-street." 

"  Ah,  that  I  know  very  well ;  but  he  is  only  a 
lodger  there  :  where  does  he  come  from  ?" 

"  I  am  sure,  mother,  I  do  not  know." 

"  What  countryman  is  he  ?  You  must  know  that, 
Frank." 

"  An  American,  I  believe ;  he  speaks  just  as  we 
do; — no,  I  guess  he's  English;  he  speaks  shorter, 
and  cuts  off  his  words  just  in  that  crusty  way  thai 
father  says' is  English." 

"  Does  he  never  say  any  thing  about  himself?"    . 

"  No,  never.  Oh,  yes !  I  remember  the  day  1 
carried  him  some  of  those  superb  peaches  cousin 
Anne  sent  us,  he  said  I  was  the  only  person  in  the 
world  that  ever  thought  of  him  ;  and  he  said  it  in  a 
choking  kind  of  way,  as  if  he  could  scarcely  help 
crying." 

"  Does  he  seem  extremely  poor  ?" 

"Yes — oh,  no  ;  not  so  very  poor — I  never  think 
of  his  being  poor  when  I  am  with  him,  any  more 
than  if  he  were  a  gentleman." 

"Is  he  well  looking ?" 

"  Yes,  mother ;  at  least  I  like  his  looks  very  much 


32  CLARENCE;  OR 

now ;  but  when  I  first  saw  him,  I  thought  him  such 
a  fright !  He  has  very  large  black  eyes,  and  the} 
are  so  sunken  in  his  head,  that  they  looked  all  black 
to  me  ;  his  hair  is  a  dark  brown,  like  father's  excepting 
where  it  is  gray ;  and  his  skin  looks  like  some  of  the  old 
shrivelled  parchment  in  father's  office  ;  and  he  is  very 
tall,  and  so  thin  that  it  seems  as  if  his  bones  might 
rattle  ;  and  he  has  turns  of  breathing  like  a  cracked 
whistle.  But  for  all,  mother,  I  like  his  looks ;  and 
one  thing  I  know,  I  had  rather  be  with  him,  than 
with  any  body  else." 

Making  all  due  allowance  for  the  juvenile  super 
latives  of  Frank's  description,  Mrs,  Carroll  was  at  a 
loss  to  understand  what  attraction  there  could  be  in 
the  stranger  to  counteract  the  first  impression  of  such 
a  figure  as  her  son  had  depicted.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  "  Does  Mr.  Flavel  give  you  any  thing, 
Frank?"  she  asked. 

"  Mother !  he  has  nothing  in  the  world  to  give ; 
that  he  very  often  says  to  me." 

"  What  can  make  you  like  him  so  mucto,  Frank  ?" 

"  Because  I  do,  mother.  Now  don't  say  that's  no 
reason ;  just  give  me  the  partridge,  and  let  me  go." 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Frank  f 
You  surely  can  tell  me,  if  you  will,  what  it  is  that 
attaches  you  to  this  stranger  f  Does  he  talk  to  you. 
— does  he  tell  you  stories  ?" 

"  Not  very  often.  He  has  told  me  of  some  ship 
wrecks,  and  of  the  Obi  men  in  the  West  Indies." 

"  It's  extremely  odd  you  should  care  so  much 
about  him ;  what  can  the  charm  be  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know,  mother  ;  only  he  is  al- 
/  ways  glad  to  see  me,  and  he  seems  to  love  me,  and 
he  has  not  any  body  else  to  care  for  him." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  33 

Mrs.  Carroll  smiled,  kissed  her  boy,  and  added  to 
the  partridge  she  had  arranged,  a  small  jar  of  jelly, 
and  Frank  ran  off,  happy  in  the  indulgence  of  his 
affection,  without  being  compelled  to  give  a  reason 
for  it.  When  he  arrived  at  the  little  Dutch  domicil, 
a  hackney  coach  was  standing  before  the  door;  and  as 
Frank  put  his  hand  on  the  latch,  the  coachman  called 
after  him,  "  Here,  my  lad,  tell  the  folks  in  there  to 
make  haste ;  it's  bad  enough  to  wait  for  my  betters, 
without  being  kept  standing  for  the  alms-house 
gentry." 

The  sound  of  Frank's  first  step  in  the  entry  was 
usually  greeted  by  a  welcoming  call  from  Mr.  Flavel ; 
but  no  kind  tone  saluted  him  now,  and  alarmed  by  an 
unusual  turmoil  in  his  friend's  apartment,  he  hastened 
forward  to  his  door,  which  stood  a  little  ajar,  and 
there  he  remained  riveted  to  the  threshold,  by  the 
scene  that  presented  itself.  Mr.  Flavel  lay  extend 
ed  on  the  bed,  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  head 
awkwardly  propped  with  chairs  and  pillows ;  his 
hostess  was  bustling  about  him,  and  at  the  moment 
arranging  a  neckcloth  around  his  throat,  while  two 
strapping  blacks  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  await 
ing  the  conclusion  of  her  operations  to  convey  him 
to  the  coach.  He  appeared  entirely  unconscious, 
till  an  involuntary  exclamation  of  "  Oh,  dear  !" 
hurst  from  little  Frank's  lips.  He  then  languidly 
opened  his  eyes,  and  attempted  to  speak ;  but  fail 
ing,  he  made  a  violent  muscular  effort,  and  succeed 
ed  in  beckoning  the  child  to  him,  took  his  hand,  and 
laid  it  first  on  his  heart,  and  then  to  his  lips.  Frank 
burst  into  tears.  "  Stand  away,  boy,"  cried  Mrs. 
Quackenboss,  rudely  pushing  Frank,  "  stand  away, 
the  men  can't  wait." 


34  CLARENCE;  OR 

Frank  maintained  his  ground  :  "  Wait  for  what r. 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  Mr.  Flavel  ?" 

"  What  am  I  going  to  do  with  him  !  send  him  to 
the  alms-house,  to  be  sure." 

"  Oh  !  don't  send  him  to  the  alms-house." 

"  And  what  for  not  to  the  alms-house  ?" 

"  Because — because  he  is  so  very  sick,  and  the 
alms-house  is  such  a  strange  place  for  him  to  go  to. 
Oh  don't — don't  send  him  there." 

"  Pshaw,  boy  !  stand  away — I  tell  you  there's  no 
time  to  be  lost." 

"  Let  him  stay  one  minute  then,  while  I  can  run 
over  the  way,  and  speak  to  my  father  about  him." 

"  No,  no,  child,  what's  the  use  ?"  replied  the  old 
woman.  But  when  Mr.  Flavel  again  attempted  to 
speak  and  failed,  and  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes, 
still  intently  fixed  on  Frank,  her  obduracy  was 
softened  and  perhaps  a  superstitious  feeling  awa 
kened.  "  It's  an  ugly  sight  to  see  the  like  of  him 
this  way,"  she  said,  "  go  but,  boy,  and  be  quickly 
back  again." 

Frank  ran,  found  his  father,  and  touched  his 
heart  with  the  communication  of  his  benevolent 
grief.  "  Well,  my  son,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you 
wish  me  to  do  ?" 

Frank  hesitated  ;  his  instinct  taught  him  that  the 
proposition  his  heart  dictated  was  rather  quixotic, 
but  his  father's  moistened  eye  arid  sweet  smile  en 
couraged  him,  and  when  Mr.  Carroll  added, 
"  speak  out,  Frank,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  he  boldly 
answered,  "  take  him  home,  to  our  house,  sir." 

"  My  dear  boy  !  you  do  not  consider." 

"  No,  father,  I  know  it — there's  no  time  to  con 
sider  ;  the  men  are  waiting  to  take  him  to  the 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  35 

alms-house.  The  alms-house  is  not  fit  for  Mr. 
Flavel,  father  ;  and  besides,  I  can  never  go  there  to 
see  him.  Oh,  don't  consider — do  come  and  look  at 
him." 

Nature   inspired  the   truth   of   philosophy,    the  j' 
senses  "are"the  most  direct  avenues-to  the  heart,  and  j 
Frank  Carroll  felt  that  the  sight  of  his  friend  would 
best  plead  his  cause  ;  and  he  deemed  it  half  gained  / 
when  his  father  took  up  his  hat  and  returned  withj 
him.     As  they  entered  the  apartment  together,  Mr, 
Flavel,  whose  eye,  ever  since  Frank  left  the  room, 
had  been  turned  towards  the  door  in  eager  expecta- 
tion,  rose  almost  upright  on  the  bed,  stretched  his 
hand  out  to  Mr.  Carroll,  drew  him  to  the  bed-side, 
and  perused  his  face  with  an  expression  of  intelligent 
and  most  mysterious  earnestness.     He  then  sunk 
back  quite  exhausted,  and  articulated  a  few  words, 
but  so  faintly  that  they  were  not  audible. 

Mr.  Carroll  was  confounded.  He  first  thought 
the  stranger  must  be  delirious  ;  but  after  a  mo 
ment's  more  consideration  he  was  assured  of  his 
sanity,  and  he  felt  that  there  was  something  in  his 
appearance  that  accounted  for  Frank's  interest,  and 
justified  it.  It  was  the  ruin  of  a  noble  temple. 
Humiliating  as  the  circumstances  were  that  sur 
rounded  him,  there  was  still  an  air  of  refinement 
about  him  that  confirmed  Frank's  opinion  that  the 
alms-house  "  was  not  a  fit  place  for  him,"  and  when, 
a  moment  after,  the  old  man  fondly  laid  his  hand 
on  Frank's  head,  and  the  tears  again  gushed  from 
his  eyes,  the  boy  turned  to  his  father  as  if  the  ap 
peal  were  irresistible,  saying,  "  There,  sir,  you  will 
take  him  home  with  us,  won't  you  f" 


36  CLARENCE;    OR 

To  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Carroll's  heart  was  scarcely 
less  susceptible  than  his  son's,  and  he  only  hesitated 
from  dread  of  a  certain  domestic  tribunal,  before 
which  some  justification  of  an  extraordinary  and  in 
convenient  charity  would  be  necessary.  Therefore, 
while  the  hackman  was  hallooing  at  the  door,  the 
blacks  were  muttering  their  impatience,  and  the  old 
woman  kept  a  sort  of  under  barking,  he  proceeded 
to  make  an  investigation  of  the  subject. 

He  took  the  old  woman  aside :  "  Who  is  this  Mr. 
Flavel  ?"  he  asked. 

"  The  Lord  knows." 

"  How  long  has  he  lodged  here  ?" 

"  Six  weeks." 

"  Has  he  paid  you  his  board  regularly  f 

"  What  for  should  I  keep  him  if  he  had  not  ?" 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand  he  has  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes ;  and  in  good  hard  money  too  ;  for  I 
ran't  read  their  paper  trash." 

'*  And  how  do  you  know  that  he  has  not  money 
to  pay  any  farther  expenses  you  may  incur  for 
him?" 

"  How  do  I  know? — how  should  I  know,  but  by 
finding  out  ?  When  I  came  in  the  room  to  make 
his  fire  this  morning,  he  laid  in  a  stiff  fit,  and  I 
made  an  overhaul  of  his  pockets  and  trunk,  and 
nothing  could  I  find  but  a  trifle  of  change." 

"  Has  he  not  clothes  enough  to  secure  you  ?*' 

"  Yes,  he  has  lots  of  clothes  ;  but  who  wants 
dead  men's  clothes  to  be  spooked  all  their  lives;  and 
besides,  a  lone  woman,  like  I  am,  what  should  I  do 
with  a  man's  clothes  ?" 

"  You  can  sell  them  to  the  pawn-brokers." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  37 

"  No,  no  ;  its  bad  luck  to  meddle  or  make  with 
daut  clothes.  Come  Tony,"  she  continued  turning 
to  the  black  men,  "  take  hold;  and  Jupe,  as  you  go 
by  the  '  ready  made  coffin'  store,  call  and  tell  them 
to  send  a  coffin  for  Mr.  Smit.  The  body  is  short, 
and  narrow  at  the  shoulders  ;  let  them  send  an  under 
sized  one,  that  will  come  at  a  low  price ;  for  poor 
Mr.  Smit  would  not  like  waste  in  his  burying. — 
Come,  boys,  up  with  him." 

"Oh,  father  !"  exclaimed  Frank,  in  a  voice  of 
the  most  pathetic  entreaty. 

"  Stop,  fellows  !"  cried  Mr.  Carroll,  and  then 
turning  again  to  the  surly  woman,  "  keep  Mr. 
Flavel  for  the  present,"  he  said,  "  spare  no  atten 
tion.  I  will  send  a  nurse  and  physician  here,  and 
see  that  all  your  charges  are  paid." 

"  No,  no  ;  there's  one  death  in  the  house  already, 
and  he'd  soon  make  another — the  place  will  get  a 
bad  name — let  him  quit." 

Mr.  Carroll  perceived  that  her  dogged  resolution 
was  not  to  be  moved,  he  was  disgusted  at  her  bru 
tal  coarseness,  and  not  sorry  to  be  in  some  sort 
compelled  to  the  decision  which  his  heart  first, 
prompted,  he  asked  Mr.  Flavel  if  he  thought  he 
could  bear  to  be  carried  on  a  litter  to  Barclay- 
street.  For  a  moment  Mr.  Flavel  made  no  sign 
of  reply,  but  pressed  his  hand  on  his  head  as  if  his 
feelings  were  too  intense  to  be  borne.  Then  again 
taking  Mr.  Carroll's  hand  in  both  his.  he  murmured 
"  Yes." 

Every  expression,  every  movement  heightened  Mr. 
Carroll's  interest  in  Flavel,  and  strengthened  his  reso 
lution  to  serve  him.  He  ordered  the  blacks  to  go  im- 

VOL.  I.  4 


38  CLARENCE;    OR 

mediately  to  the  hospital  for  a  litter,  and  himself  hur 
ried  home  to  prepare  his  wife  for  the  reception  of 
her  unexpected  and  extraordinary  guest.  This  was 
a  delicate  business ;  but  he  executed  it  with  as  much 
skill  as  the  time  admitted.  Mrs.  Carroll,  though 
kind-hearted  and  complying  to  a  reasonable  degree, 
never  lost  sight  of  the  '  appearance  of  the  thing,' 
nor  was  she  ever  insensible  to  the  exactions  and 
sacrifices  that  render  many  forms  of  charity  so 
costly.  She  heard  her  husband  through,  and  then 
exclaimed,  "  What  have  you  been  about,  Carroll  1 
You  may  as  well  turn  the  house  into  an  alms-house 
at  once.  I  don't  know  what  people  will  think  of 
us  !  You  and  Frank  are  just  alike !  There's 
some  excuse  for  him  ;  but  really,  Carroll,  I  think 
you  might  have  some  consideration.  W  hat  are  we 
to  do  with  the  man  f" 

"  Whatever  you  please,  my  dear  Sarah,  it  can  be 
but  for  a  very  little  while.  If  he  lives,  I  will  get 
lodgings  for  him.  I  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse 
Frank." 

"  Frank  should  be  a  little  more  considerate  ;  but 
men  and  boys  are  all  alike.  I  never  knew  one  of 
them  have  the  least  consideration.  They  just  de 
termine  what  they  desire  must  be  done,  and  there's 
an  end  of  their  trouble.  A  sick  man  is  so  disagree 
able  to  take  care  of,  and  who  is  to  do  it  here  ?  You 
surely  would  not  have  me  nurse  him ;  and  as  to  Bar 
bara  and  Tempy,  they  have  their  hands  full  already/' 

"  I  have  already  thought  of  this  trouble,  my  dear 
wife,  and  have  obviated  it.  On  my  way  home  I 
met  Conolly ;  he  appliecfHo  me  to  recommend  him  to 
a  place  as  nurse,  or  waiter ;  I  have  directed  him  to^ 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  39 

come  immediately  here ;  he  is  perfectly  competent 
to  all  the  extra  labour  necessary,  and  as  to  the  rest, 
my  dear  Sarah,  no  creature  beneath  your  roof  will 
ever  suffer  for  attention  or  kindness." 

Mrs.  Carroll  smiled,  in  spite  of  her  vexation,  at 
this  well-timed,  and  in  truth,  well-deserved  compli 
ment  ;  and  when  Frank  at  the  next  moment  bounded 
in,  looking  beautiful  with  the  flush  of  exercise  and 
the  beaming  of  his  gratified  spirit  through  his  lovely 
face,  and  springing  into  his  father's  arms  embraced 
and  thanked  him,  and  kissed  his  mother,  and  ex 
pressed  the  joy  of  his  full  heart  by  jumping 
about  the  room,  clapping  his  hands,  and  other 
noisy  demonstrations;  Mrs.  Carroll  went  with  as 
much  alacrity  to  make  the  preparatory  arrange 
ments,  as  if  the  charity  were  according  to  the  ac 
cepted  forms  of  this  virtue,  and  as  if  it  had  origi 
nated  with  herself. 

Before  an  attic  room,  which  was  most  suitable  to 
the  condition  of  the  expected  guest,  could  be  pre 
pared,  he  arrived ;  and  Mrs.  Carroll  alarmed  by  his 
pale  and  exhausted  appearance,  which  seemed  to  her 
to  portend  immediate  death,  threw  open  the  door  of 
her  neat  spare-room  and  thus  instated  the  poor  sick 
stranger  in  the  possession  of  the  best  bed  and  most 
luxurious  apartment  of  her  frugal  establishment. 

Mrs.  Carroll  had  a  worrying  vein,  but  the  serene 
temper,  superior  qualities,  and  affectionate  devotion 
of  her  husband  duly  tempered  the  heat  and  pre 
vented  its  rising  to  the  curdling  point. 

There  were  a  good  many  annoyances  in  this  be 
nevolent  enterprise  that  none  but  a  housewife  as  pre 
cise  as  Mrs.  Carroll  could  rightly  appreciate.  "  Any 
other  time,"  she  thought,  "  she  should  not  have  cared 


40  CLARENCE;   OR 

about  it,  but  the  room  was  just  white-washed  and 
the  curtains  were  so  uncommonly  white,  and  though 
the  chimney  smoked  the  least  in  the  world,  it  did 
smoke,  and  every  thing  would  get  as  yellow  as 
saffron,  and  it  was  such  a  pity  to  have  so  much 
racing  over  the  new  stair-carpet — if  she  only  had 
not  given  away  the  old  one — and  Tempy  would  get 
no  time  for  the  street-door  brasses,  and  nothing  did 
try  her  so  much  as  dirty  brasses;  and  in  short, 
though  every  inconvenience  seemed  to  her  peculiar 
to  this  particular  case,  her  good  dispositions  finally 
triumphed  over  them  all,  and  her  sick  guest  was  as 
scrupulously  attended  as  if  he  had  derived  his  claim 
from  a  more  imposing  source  than  his  wants. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  41 


CHAPTER  IV. 

•'  'Tis  nature's  worship — felt — confess'd 

Far  as  the  life  which  warms  the  breast  !~ 

The  sturdy  savage  midst  his  clan 

The  rudest  portraiture  of  man, 

In  trackless  woods  and  boundless  plains. 

Where  everlasting-  wildness  reig-ns, 

Owns  the  still  throb — the  secret  start — 

The  hidden  impulse  of  the  heart."  BYHOST, 

A  few  days  of  skilful  medical  attendance  from 
Dr.  Eustace,  the  care  of  a  tolerable  nurse,  and  the 
kindest  devotion  of  the  whole  Carroll  family,  worked 
miracles  on  Mr.  Flavel's  exhausted  frame. 

He  seemed  no  stranger  to  the  little  comforts 
and  modest  luxuries  he  now  enjoyed.  No  '  Chris 
topher  Sly'  awaking  from  his  dreams,  but  as  if  he 
might  have  been  both  *  Honor'  and  *  Lord'  all  the 
days  of  his  life.  But,  though  the  refinements  of 
Mrs.  Carroll's  spare-room  did  not  produce  any 
marked  sensation,  the  kindness  of  the  family  did : 
no  look  or  word  escaped  his  notice ;  never  was  man 
more  sensible — more  alive  to  the  charities  of  life* 
Dr.  Eustace  said  he  appeared  as  much  changed 
since  the  first  time  he  had  seen  him,  as  if  an  evil 
spirit  had  been  driven  from  his  breast  to  give  place 
to  the  ministry  of  good  angels. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  pay  a  compliment  to  my  chil 
dren,  Doctor?"  asked  Mr.  Carroll,  to  whom  the 
Doctor  had  addressed  his  remark. 

"  No ;    not  to  them  exclusively.     I  think  your 


42  CLARENCE;  OR 

influence,  Carroll,  on  Mr.  Flavel  is  more  striking 
than  theirs — than  Frank's  even — though  he  doats  on 
Frank  ;  but  I  have  noticed  that  you  excite  an  obvi 
ous  emotion  whenever  you  come  into  his  room  ;  and 
once  or  twice  I  have  been  feeling  his  pulse  when  you 
were  coming  up  stairs,  and  feeble  as  they  were,  the 
sound  of  your  approaching  footsteps  has  quickened 
them  even  to  throbbing." 

"  It's  very  odd,"  said  Mrs.  Carroll,  "  if  he  really 
feels  so  much,  that  he  never  speaks  of  it ;  not  that  I 
care  about  it  at  all,  you  know ;  but  I  think  it  is  but 
civil,  when  one  is  receiving  all  sorts  of  favors,  to 
express  some  gratitude  for  them." 

"  I  am  sure  he  feels  it,  and  feels  it  deeply,"  re 
plied  Doctor  Eustace.  "He  betrayed  so  much 
emotion  yesterday  in  speaking  of  your  husband, 
that  I  thought  it  prudent  to  leave  the  room ;  and  to 
day  he  begged  me,  in  case  he  should  suddenly  lose 
his  speech  or  faculties,  to  request  Mr.  Carroll  to 
keep  him  under  his  roof  while  he  lived.  He  knew, 
he  said,  that  Carroll's  means  were  too  limited  to 
allow  him  to  indulge  his  generous  dispositions,  and 
he  wished  him  to  be  informed,  that  he  had  sufficient 
funds  in  the  hands  of  the  Barings  to  indemnify  him 
for  any  expenses  he  might  incur.  He  has  made 
some  memorandums,  to  that  eflect  I  presume,  to  be 
given  to  you  in  case  of  his  sudden  death."* 

"  That  is  just  what  I  should  have  expected,"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Carroll,  "  true  John  Bull,  keeping  up 
a.  show  of  independence  to  the  last  gasp  ;  as  if  a 
few  dollars  were  a  compensation  for  all  this  trouble 
hi  a  gentleman's  family.  Now,  my  dear  husband 
don't  look  so  solemn ;  is  it  not  a  little  provoking, 
4* 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  43 

considering-  all  our  trouble,  to  say  nothing  of  ex 
pense  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear;  a  little  provoking." 

"  Oh!  nothing  ever  provokes  you.  I  should  not 
think  any  thing  of  doing  it  for  a  friend,  but  for  a 
stranger  it  is  quite  a  different  affair." 

"  Few  would  scruple  doing  for  a  friend,  Sarah, 
all  you  have  done  for  Mr.  Flavel,  but  I  know  few 
beside  you  that  would  have  done  it  for  a  stranger." 

Mrs.  Carroll  was  mollified  by  her  husband's 
praise.  She  knew  she  in  part  deserved  it,  and  she 
was  too  honest  to  put  in  a  disclaimer.  "  I  know, 
Charles,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  not  half  so  generous 
as  you  are ;"  that  was  true ;  "  but  I  have  really 
done  what  I  could  for  the  old  gentleman ;  gentle 
man  he  certainly  is ;  that  is  a  satisfaction ;  poor 
man,  I  do  feel  for  him.  Yesterday,  doctor,  after 
you  told  me  that  a  recurrence  of  the  fits  might 
carry  him  off  at  any  moment,  I  thought  it  my  duty 
to  hint  to  him  the  importance  of  seeing  a  clergyman, 
and  I  proposed  to  him  to  send  for  Mr.  Stanhope. 
He  replied  very  coldly  that  he  wished  to  avoid  all 
unnecessary  excitement.  Unnecessary!  said  I.  My 
dear  madam,  said  he,  do  not  give  yourself  any 
uneasiness  on  my  account.  I  must  take  my  chance. 
Quackery  cannot  help  me." 

"  He  has,  no  doubt,  had  a  singular  experience," 
said  Mr.  Carroll,  "  and  has  probably  peculiar  reli 
gious  views,  but  I  trust,  better  than  these  expres 
sions  indicate.  When  I  went  into  his  room  last 
evening,  Frank  was  reading  the  bible  to  him,  and 
Gertrude  stood  ready  with  her  prayer  book,  to  read 
the  prayers  for  the  sick.  He  had,  it  seems,  re- 


44  CLARENCE;    OR 

quested  this.  His  face  was  covered  with  his  hand 
kerchief,  and  I  left  them  to  their  celestial  ministry. 
Mr.  Flavel  has  probably  lived  in  a  corrupt  state  of 
society  and  has  become  distrustful  of  religious 
teachers — has  involved  them  all  in  a  sweeping  pre 
judice  against  the  priestly  office.  Such  a  man's  de 
votional  feelings  would  have  nothing  to  resist  in  the 
ministry  of  children.  He  would  yield  himself  to 
their  simplicity  and  truth,  and  feel  their  accordance 
with  the  elements  of  Christian  instruction.  I  feel 
an  inexpressible  interest  in  him,  and  I  cannot  but 
hope  that  the  light  of  religion  has,  with  healing  on 
its  beams,  penetrated  his  heart." 

"  That  is  hoping  against  hope,  Charles  ;  if  he  has 
any  such  feelings  as  you  imagine,  why,  for  pity's 
sake,  does  not  he  express  them  ?" 

"  There  are  various  modes  of  expression ;  his 
present  tranquillity  may  be  one.  There  are  persons 
so  reserved,  so  fastidious,  that  they  never  speak  of 
their  religious  feelings." 

"  Well — that's  what  I  call  being  more  nice  than 
wise,"  replied  Mrs.  Carroll,  "especially  when  one, 
like  Mr.  Flavel,  has  doneVith  the  world." 

Mr.  Carroll  made  no  reply.  His  wife's  mind 
was  of  a  different  texture  from  his,  and  the  sensa 
tion  her  remarks  sometimes  produced  was  similar  to 
that  endured  by  a  person  of  an  exquisite  musical 
ear  from  a  discordant  note.  He  said  something  of 
not  having  seen  Mr.  Flavel  since  dinner,  and  went 
to  his  apartment.  He  was  sitting  up  in  his  bed  and 
looking  better  than  usual.  Frank  sat  on  one  side 
of  him,  abstracting  the  skins  from  a  bunch  t  of  fine 
grapes,  and  giving  them  to  the  invalid.  His  little 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  45 

sister,  Gertrude,  on  the  other,  reading  aloud. 
"  Where  did  you  get  your  grapes,  Frank  ?"  asked 
his  father. 

"  Cousin  Anne  Raymond  gave  them  to  me,  but 
I  would  not  have  taken  them  if  I  had  not  thought 
to  myself,  they  would  be  good  for  Mr.  Flavel." 

"Why  not,  my  son?" 

"  Because  cousin  Anne  is  such  a  queer  woman. 
I  wish  I  had  not  any  rich  cousins  ;  or,  at  least,  I 
wish  mother  would  not  make  me  go  and  see  them. 
I  am  glad  we  are  not  rich,  father." 

"  Riches  do  not,  of  course,  Frank,  make  people 
like  your  cousin  Anne ;  but  how  has  she  offended 
you  ?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  met  her  in  the  entry,  and 
without  even  saying,  '  how  do  you  do,'  she  asked 
me  if  I  had  scraped  my  shoes." 

"  There  was  surely  no  harm  in  that." 

"I  know  that,  sir;  but  then  she  might  have 
looked  first,  as  you  would  have  done.  Mother  told 
me  before  I  left  home,  about  cousin  Anne's  famous 
carpets,  and  charged  me  to  scrape  my  feet,  and  I 
had.  Blame  her  new  carpets !  I  wish  I  had  soiled 
them." 

"My  son!" 

"Well  father,  I  was  too  provoked  with  her; 
there  was  ever  so  much  fine  company  in  the  parlor, 
and  I  went  to  get  myself  a  chair,  and  they  were  all 
looking  at  me,  and  I  stumbled,  I  don't  know  how, 
but  at  any  rate  I  broke  the  leg  of  the  chair,  and 
cousin  Anne  laughed  out  loud,  and  said  to  one  of 
the  gentlemen,  « I  expected  it,'  and  then  she  whis 
pered  to  me,  *  always  wait  for  a  servant  to  hand 


46  CLARENCE;  OR 

you  a  chair,  my  dear ;'  and  then  she  ordered  the 
man  to  give  me  some  cake — I  was  determined  I 
would  not  take  any  if  I  died  for  it,  and  one  o-f  the 
ladies  said,  the  young  man  is  quite  right,  it  is  too 
rich  for  him." 

Mr.  Carroll  laughed  at  the  boy's  simplicity. 
"Frank,'*  he  said,  ^  she  meant  too  rich  to  be 
wholesome." 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  meant,  sir,  but  I  hate 
the  very  word  rich.  Soon  after,  when  most  of  her 
visiters  were  gone,  she  said,  '  so  Frank,  your  mother 
has  a  famous  new  hat — where  did  she  get  it  ?'  1 
told  her  it  was  a  present  from  aunt  Selden ;  '  I 
thought  so,'  said  she,  '  I  thought  she  would  hardly 
buy  such  an  expensive  hat.'  I  hope  mother  will 
never  wear  it  again — I  wish  she  would  not  wear 
any  fine  presents." 

"  I  wish  so  too,  Frank ;  but  was  this  all  that  our 
cousin  said  ?" 

"  No,  not  all ;  but  I  will  tell  you  the  rest  some 
other  time,  sir."  The  rest,  which  Frank's  delicacy 
suppressed,  was  in  relation  to  his  father's  singular 
guest.  Mrs.  Raymond  made  many  inquiries  about 
him ;  said  it  was  absurd  to  take  in  a  man  of  that 
sort.  It  was  making  an  alms-house  of  your  house 
at  once ;  and  beside,  it  was  an  enormous  expense ; 
but,  as  to  that,  it  seemed  to  her,  that  poor  people 
never  thought  of  expense ;  to  be  sure,  benevolence, 
and  sentiment,  and  all  that,  were  very  fine  things, 
but  for  her  part,  she  did  not  see  how  people  that 
had  but  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year  could  afford 
to  indulge  them.'  This  scornful  railing  was  not, 
of  course,  addressed  to  Frank,  but  spoken,  as  if  he 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  47 

had  neither  ears  nor  understanding,  to  another  rich 
supercilious  cousin.  This,  conspiring  with  the 
mortifying  incidents  of  the  morning  visit,  filled  the 
generous  boy's  bosom  with  a  contempt  of  riches 
that  all  the  stoicism  of  all  the  schools  could  not 
have  inspired.  When  he,  afterwards,  related  this 
supplement  to  his  cousin's  conversation,  Mr.  Car 
roll's  only  reply  was,  "It  is  true,  my  dear  boy, 
that  our  income  admits  few  luxuries — but  the  luxury 
of  giving  shall  be  the  last  that  we  deny  ourselves." 

But  we  must  return  to  the  little  circle  around  the 
invalid's  bed,  which  was  soon  enlarged,  by  the  ad 
dition  of  Mrs.  Carroll,  and  the  following  conversa 
tion  ensued,  and  seemed  naturally  to  arise  from  what 
had  preceded. 

"  Suppose  for  a  moment,  Frank,"  said  Mr.  Fla- 
vel,  "that  one  of  the  good  genii  of  your  fairy  tales 
were  to  offer  to  make  your  father  rich,  would  you  ' 
accept  the  offer  ?" 

"  No,  no  ;  not  if  he  must  be  like  other  rich  peo 
ple." 

"  What  say  you,  my  little  Gertrude  ?" 

"  Not  if  he  were  to  be  at  all  different  from  what 
he  is." 

"  I  am  not  in  much  danger,"  said  the  delighted  I 
father,  "  of  sighing  after  fortune  while  I  possess  you,  I 
my  children." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Flavel,  whose  countenance 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  illumination  of  Carroll's, 
"you  do  not  desire  fortune  ?" 

"  No,  I  do  not;  at  least  I  have  no  desire  for  if 
that  in  the  least  impairs  my  contentment.  Every 
day's  observation  strengthens  my  conviction  that 


48  C'LARENCE;    OR 

mediocrity  of  fortune  is  most  favorable  to  virtue, 
and  of  course  to  happiness." 

"And  you  would  not  accept  of  fortune  if  it  were 
offered  to  you  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  I  do  not  say ;  money  is  the  represen 
tative  of  power — of  the  most  enviable  of  all  power, 
that  of  doing  good.  I  have  my  castles  in  the  air  as 
well  as  other  men — my  dreams  of  the  possible  hap 
piness  to  be  derived  from  using  and  dispensing 
wealth." 

"  And  you  flatter  yourself  that  with  the  acquisi 
tion  of  wealth  you  should  retain  the  dispositions  that 
spring  naturally  from  the  bosom  of  virtuous  medio 
crity  ?" 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Flavel,  some  men  have  resisted  the 
corrupting  influence  of  money,  and  have  used  it  for 
high  and  beneficent  purposes.  At  any  rate,  if  I  flat 
ter  myself,  the  delusion  is  quite  innocent,  and  in  no 
danger  of  being  dispelled.  It  is  scarcely  among  the 
possible  casualties  of  life,  that  I  should  possess 
wealth  ;  my  decent  clerkship  only  affords  moderate 
compensation  to  constant  labor.  I  have  not  a  known 
relative  in  the  world,  and  I  never  gamble  in  lotte 
ries"— 

"Life  is  a  lottery,  my  dear  friend,"  replied  Mr. 
Flavel ;  "  your  virtue  may  yet  be  proved." 

"  Heaven  grant  it !"  sighed  Mrs.  Carroll. 

"  Then  you  do  not  share  your  husband's  philoso 
phic  indifference  to  wealth,  Mrs.  Carroll  ?" 

"  Wealth,  that  is  out  of  the  question ;  I  do  not 
care  for  wealth,  but  I  confess  that  I  should  like  a. 
competency — I  should  like  a  little  more  than  we 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  49 

have ;  my  husband  works  from  morning  till  night 
for  a  mere  pittance." 

"  Why  should  not  I  ?     Labor  is  no  evil." 

"Pshaw!  Mr.  Carroll,  I  know  that;  but  then 
one  does  like  to  get  some  compensation  for  it.  You 
seem  to  forget  the  children  are  growing  up,  and 
want  the  advantages  of  education — " 

"Pardon  me,  that  I  never  forget;  but  the  essen 
tials  of  a  good  education  are  within  our  reach,  and 
as  to  accomplishments,  they  are  luxuries  that  may 
be  dispensed  with,  and  for  which  I,  certainly,  would 
not  sacrifice  the  moral  influences  of  our  modest 
competence." 

"  I  do  not  see,  Charles,  that  moral  influences 
need  to  be  sacrificed.  If  you  were  as  rich  as  Crce- 
sus,  you  would  be  careful  to  instil  good  principles 
into  your  children." 

"  Perhaps  so;  but  I  have  more  confidence  in  the 
influence  of  circumstances  favorable  to  the  forma 
tion  of  character,  than  in  direct  instruction.  The 
most  energetic,  self-denying,  and  disinterested  per 
sons  I  have  ever  known,  have  been  made  so  by  the 
force  of  necessity.  Mr.  Flavel,  you  must  have  seen 
a  good  deal  of  the  world — are  you  not  of  my  opi 
nion  ?"J 

"  My  opinions,"  replied  Mr.  Flavel,  with  a  sigh, 
"  have  been  moulded  by  peculiar  circumstances,  and 
scarcely  admit  of  any  general  application.  Mrs. 
Carroll  has  given  honorable  reasons  for  coveting 
more  ample  means;  she  may  have  others  equally 
strong" — he  looked  inquiringly  at  Mrs.  Carroll,  as 
if  anxious  she  should  speak  her  whole  mind  on  the 
subject,  and  she  frankly  replied*  "  Certainly,  I  have 

VOL.  I.  5 


50  CLARENCE;  OR 

other  reasons  ;  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  live  in  a 
better  house — to  have  more  servants  and  furniture-— 
in  short,  to  live  genteelly."  Mr.  Flavel's  countenance 
for  a  moment  resumed  its  sarcastic  expression,  and 
Mr.  Carroll  rose  and  walked  to  the  window ;  but 
Mrs.  Carroll,  without  observing  either,  continued, 
"  By  living  genteellv,  I  mean  merely,  being  able  to 
move  in  good  society,  on  equal  terms." 

"  Is   cousin  Anne  good  society  ?"    asked  little 

Frank. 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  replied  his  father ;  "  all  your  mo 
ther's  connections  are  good  society." 

If  there  was  satire  in  the  tone  of  Mr.  Carroll's 
voice,  it  passed  unnoticed  by  his.  wife,  who  said, 
with  the  most  perfect  self-complacency,  "  Yes,  that's 
true ;  my  family  has  always  been  in  the  very  first 
society,  and  it  is  natural  that  I  should  wish  my  chil 
dren  to  associate  with  my  relatives." 

"  Perfectly  natural,  my  dear  wife,  but  perfectly 
impossible,  since  wealth  is  the  only  passport  to  this 
good  society,  at  least,  the  only  means  of  procuring  a 
family  ticket  of  admission." 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I  say,  just  what  I  desire 
riches  for ;  but  then,"  she  continued,  with  a  little 
petulance  in  her  manner,  "  if  you  had  not  been  so 
particular,  Mr.  Carroll,  we  might  have  kept  on  vi 
siting  terms  with  some  of  our  connections.  We  have 
been  repeatedly  invited  to  uncle  Henry's  and  cousin 
William's." 

"  Yes,  we  might  have  been  guests  on  sufferance, 
and  have  gone  to  weddings  and  funerals  at  sundry 
other  uncles  and  cousins,  but  I  was  too  proud,  Sa 
rah,  to  permit  you  to  receive  your  rights  as  favors." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  51 

•"  There  is  such  a  thing,  Mr.  Carroll,  as  being  too 
proud  for  one's  own  interest;  and  for  our  dear 
children's  interest,  I  think  we  should  sacrifice  a  little 
of  our  pride." 

"  It  can  never  be  for  the  interest  of  our  children," 
replied  Mr.  Carroll,  with  decision,  "  that  they  should 
sacrifice  their  independence  of  character  for  the  sake 
of  associating  with  those  to  whom  the  mere  accidents 
of  life  have  assigned  a  superior — no,  I  am  wrong — a 
different  station.  I  have  no  ambition  that  my  chil 
dren  should  move  in  fashionable  society ;  I  do  not 
believe  that  in  any  country  it  includes  the  most  ele 
vated  and  virtuous  class ;  certainly  not  in  our  city, 
where  the  aristocracy  of  wealth  is  the  only  efficient 
aristocracy.  No,  I  thank  God  that  there  is  a  bar 
rier  between  us  and  the  fashionable  world  ;  that  we 
cannot  approach  it  near  enough  to  be  dazzled  by  its 
glare  :  for  like  the  reptile  that  fascinates  its  victims 
by  the  emission  of  a  brilliant  mist,  so  the  polite 
world  is  encircled  by  a  halo  fatally  dazzling  to  com 
mon  senses."  Mr.  Carroll  spoke  with  less  qualifi 
cation,  and  more  earnestness  than  was  warranted  by 
his  more  deliberate  opinion ;  but  he  was  particular 
ly  annoyed  at  this  moment  by  the  display  of  his 
wife's  ruling  passion. 

"  It  does  not  signify  talking,  Mr.  Carroll,"  she 
replied ;  "  you  and  I  can  never  agree  on  this  sub- 
ject." 

"  Not  exactly,  perhaps,  but  we  do  not  materially 
disagree.  Indeed,  if  the  old  rule  hold  good,  and 
actions  speak  louder  than  words,  you  have  already- 
given  the  strongest  opinion  on  my  side,  by  allying 


52  CLARENCE;  OR 

yourself  to  a  poor  dog,  who  you  well  knew  could 
not  sustain  you  in  the  fashionable  world." 

Mrs.  Carroll  felt  awkwardly,  and  was  glad  to  be 
relieved  by  a  summons  to  the  parjor,  where  she 
found  the  *  cousin  Anne,'  from  whose  gossiping 
scrutiny  the  insignificance  of  her  humble  condition 
did  not  exempt  her.  While  Mrs.  Carroll  was  par 
rying  her  ingenious  cross-examination  relative  to 
her  guest,  her  husband  continued  the  conversation 
with  him :  "  Fortunately  in  our  country,"  he  said, 
"  there  are  no  real,  no  permanent  distinctions,  but 
those  that  are  created  by  talent,  education,  and  vir 
tue.  These  fashionable  people,  who  most  pride 
themselves  on  their  prerogative  of  exclusiveness, 
feel  the  extreme  precariousness  of  the  tenure  by 
which  they  hold  their  privileges.  A  sudden  reverse 
of  fortune,  one  of  the  most  common  accidents  of  a 
commercial  city,  plunges  them  into  irretrievable  ob 
scurity  and  insignificance  ;  for  to  them  alj  that  por 
tion  of  the  world  that  is  not  shone  upon  by  the  sun 
of  fashion,  is  a  region  of  shadows  and  darkness. 
Perhaps  I  overrate  the  disadvantages  and  tempta 
tions  that  follow  in  the  train  of  wealth ;  but  if  my 
estimate  of  them  increases  my  own  fund  of  content 
ment,  my  mistake  is  at  least  useful  to  myself.  The 
fox  was  the  true  philosopher ;  it  is  better  to  believe  that 
the  grapes  which  we  cannot  reach  are  sour,  than  to 
disrelish  our  own  food  by  dwelling  on  their  sweetness. 
But,  Mr.  Flavel,  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for  my 
prosing,  i  have  wearied  you  with  all  this  common 
place  on  the  commonest  of  all  moral  topics." 

"  No,  not  in  the  least ;  it  is  a  common  topic,  be 
cause  one  of  universal  interest.  No,  my  deav 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  53 

mend,  your  sentiments  delight  me.  I  find  myself 
in  a  new  region.  I  feel  like  one  awakened  from  a 
confused,  distressful  dream.  Life  has  been  a  dream 
to  me  ;  strange,  eventful,  suffering." 

His  voice  faltered,  and  Conolly,  his  nurse,  enter 
ing  at  the  moment,  and  observing  his  agitation, 
whispered  to  Mr.  Carroll  that  he  had  best  remove 
the  children,  for  he  believed  the  old  gentleman  was 
going  in  his  fits.  The  children  were  accordingly 
dismissed,  and  a  cordial  administered,  though  Mr. 
Flavel  protested  it  was  unnecessary,  for  he  felt 
stronger  than  he  had  done  for  some  time,  and 
lowering  his  voice,  he  requested  Mr.  Carroll  to 
send  Conolly  away,  and  direct  him  to  remain  below 
till  called  for.  "  I  must  be  alone  with  you,"  he 
said,  "  I  must  not,  I  cannot  delay  this  longer." 

Conolly  was  dismissed  and  not  recalled  till  after 
the  lapse  of  an  hour,  when  the  bell  was  rung  re 
peatedly  and  so  violently  that  the  whole  family,  in 
excessive  alarm,  ran  up  to  the  sick  chamber.  Mr. 
Flavel  was  in  violent  convulsions  in  Mr.  Carroll's 
arms,  who  was  himself  bereft  of  all  presence  of  mind. 
He  gave  hurried  and  contradictory  orders.  He  sent 
for  Dr.  Eustace,  and  on  his  appearing,  appealed  to 
him,  as  if  happiness  and  life  itself  were  at  stake,  to 
use  all  his  art  to  restore  Mr.  Flavel  to  conscious 
ness.  For  twenty-four  hours  he  never  left  his  bed 
side — scarcely  turned  his  eyes  from  him;  but  at 
the  first  intimation  that  he  was  recovering  his  senses, 
he  quitted  him,  retired  to  his  own  room  for  a  few 
moments,  then  came  out  and  took  some  refreshment, 
and  returned  with  a  calm  exterior  to  his  bed-side. 
Still  the  unsubdued  and  intense  emotions  of  hw 
5* 


£4  CLARENCE;  OR 

mind  were  evident  in  his  knit  brow,  flushed  cheek, 
and  trembling  nerves.  He  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  leave  Mr.  Flavel  for  a  moment,  day  nor  night, 
He  would  not  suffer  any  one  else  to  render  him  the 
slightest  service,  and  he  watched  him  with  a  mother'^ 
devotion — a  devotion  that  triumphs  over  all  the 
wants  and  weakness  of  nature , 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  55 


CHAPTER  V. 

:(  When  just  is  seized  some  valued  prize. 
And  duties  press,  and  tender  ties 
Forbid  the  soul  from  earth  to  rise, 
How  awful  then  it  is  to  die !"  Mns. 

WEARY  days  and  nights  succeeded.  To  all  Mr. 
Carroll's  family  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  spell-bound. 
His  color  faded,  his  eye  was  red  and  heavy ;  he 
had  forgotten  his  business,  his  family,  every  thing 
but  one  single  object  of  intense  anxiety  and  care. 
His  altered  deportment  gave  rise  to  strange  and 
perplexed  conjectures ;  but  curious  glances  and 
obscure  intimations  alike  passed  by  him  as  if  he 
\yere  deaf  and  blind.  Dr.  Eustace  said  in  reply  to 
his  anxious  demand  of  his  medical  opinion,  "  If  Mr. 
Flavel  has  quieted  his  mind  by  the  communication 
he  has  made  to  you,  he  may  again  have  an  interval 
of  consciousness.  The  mind  has  an  inexplicable 
influence  on  the  body,  even  when  to  us  it  appears 
perfectly  inert."  Mr.  Carroll  made  no  answer. 
Nor,  when  Conolly's  curiosity  flashed  out  in  such 
exclamations  as  that  "  Sure,  and  its  well  for  him, 
any  way,  that  he's  made  a  clear  breast  of  it,"  did 
he  .reply  word  or  look  to  the  insinuation.  He  per 
severed  in  his  obstinate  silence  even  when  Mrs. 
Car-roll,  impatient  at  this  new  exclusion  from  conju 
gal  confidence,  said,  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  wish  any 
one  to  tell  me  any  thing  about  it ;  but  your  silence, 
Charles,  does  wear  my  spirits  out ;  where  there  is 


56  CLARENCE;    OR 

mystery,  there  is  always  something  wrong.  I  had 
misgivings  from  the  first ;  you  must  do  me  the  jus 
tice  to  remember  that.  A  great  risk  it  was  to  take 
in  such  a  singular  stranger.  I  always  thought  so, 
you  know.  We  could  not  tell  but  he  had  committed 
some  great  crime.  Dear  !  it  makes  my  blood  run 
cold  to  think  what  sort  of  a  person  we  may  have 
been  harboring."  All  this  was  said,  and  passively 
endured,  while  Mr.  Carroll  was  swallowing  his 
hasty  breakfast.  He  moved  abruptly  from  the  table, 
and,  as  usual,  hurried  to  Mr.  FlavePs  apartment. 

Frank  was  startled  by  his  mother's  suggestions. 
He  dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  and  signed  to 
his  sister  to  follow  him  out  of  the  room.  "  Oh,  Ger 
trude,"  he  said,  "  do  you  believe  Mr.  Flavel  is  a 
bad  man !" 

"  No,  Frank,  I  know  he  is  not" 

"  How  do  you  know  it  ?" 

"  Why  perfectly  well.     He  does  not  seem  so." 

Gertrude  certainly  had  given  an  insufficient  rea 
son  for  the  faith ,  that  was  in  her ;  and  it  had  little 
effect  in  allaying  Frank's  apprehensions;  and  im 
pelled  by  them  he  ventured,  though  he  knew  it  was 
forbidden  ground,  to  steal  into  Mr.  FlavePs  room. 
His  father  was  at  his  constant  station  at  the  bed 
side.  Frank  drew  near  softly,  took  Mr.  FlavePs 
hand,  looked  at  him  intently,  and  then  hiding  his 
face  on  his  father's  breast,  he  sobbed  out,  "  He  has 
not  committed  any  crime,  has  he,  father  ?" 

Mr.  Carroll  disengaged  himself  from  his  son. 
and  locked  the  door.  "  My  dear  child,"  he  said, 
" 1  am  fearful,  but  I  must  trust  you.  While  the 
breath  of  life  is  in  him  you  shall  know." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  5 

•'  Know  what,  father  ?    Oh,  don't  stop." 

"  You  shall  know  whom  you  have  brought  to 
me."  He  stopped,  almost  choaked  by  his  emo 
tion. 

14  Oh  !   tell  me  —  tell  me,  sir." 

"My  father!" 

Frank  was  confounded  ;  he  scarcely  compre 
hended  the  words  ;  his  mind  was  still  fixed  on  his 
first  inquiry.  "  But  has  he  committed  any  crime  ?" 
he  repeated. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  do  not  know  ;  I  only  know  he 
is  my  father." 

"  Father  —  father,"  repeated  Frank,  as  if  the 
words  did  not  yet  convey  a  distinct  idea  to  his 
mind,  but  as  he  uttered  them  they  penetrated  Mr. 
FlavePs  dull  sense,  he  languidly  unclosed  his  eyes, 
and  looked  up  with  something  like  returning  intel 
ligence,  but  it  seemed  the  mere  glimmering  of  the 
dying  spark  ;  his  eyelids  fell,  and  he  was  again  per 
fectly  unconscious. 

Mr.  Carroll  shuddered  at  his  own  imprudence. 
He  knew  that  Mr.  FlavePs  life  hung  by  a  single 
thread.  Till  now  he  had  resolutely  acted  on  this 
conviction,  and  had  now  been  betrayed  by  a  coer 
cive  sympathy  with  his  child.  He  summoned  Co- 
nolly,  and  taking  Frank  into  his  own  apartment, 
impressed  on  him  the  importance  of  keeping  the 
secret  for  the  present,  and  Frank's  subsequent  dis 
cretion  proved  what  self-government  even  a  child 
may  attain. 

Doctor  Eustace,  at  his  next  visit,  announced  a 
slight  improvement  in  his  patient,  which  was  fol 
lowed  by  a  gradual  amendment.  This,  the  Doctor 


58  CLARENCE;  OR 

said,  could  not  last ;  the  powers  of  nature  were  ex 
hausted.  Of  this,  Mr.  Flavel  was  himself  perfectly 
aware,  and  said,  with  his  characteristic  firmness,  "  if 
it  is  in  the  power  of  your  art,  Doctor,  suspend  the 
last  stroke  for  a  little  time." 

Medical  skill  did  its  utmost ;  happy  circumstances 
shed  their  balmy  influence  on  the  hurt  mind ;  and 
the  mercy  of  Heaven  interposed  to  protract  the 
flickering  flame  of  life.  Mr.  FlavePs  countenance 
assumed  an  expression  of  serenity,  and  when  his 
eye  met  Carroll's,  it  beamed  forth  a  bright  and  ten 
der  intelligence,  that  seemed  almost  supernatural. 
As  his  strength  permitted,  he  had  short  and  private 
interviews  with  him,  during  which  he  communicated 
his  history.  We  shall  recount  it  in  his  own  words, 
without  specifying  each  particular  interruption. 

"  Do  not  expect,  my  son,"  he  said,  "  minute  par 
ticulars.  I  scarcely  dare  to  think  of  past  events. 
I  dare  not  recall  the  feelings  they  excited;  you 
will  sufficiently  comprehend  them  by  their  ravages. 

"  My  father  was  a  gentleman  of  Pembroke 
shire,  in  England.  At  his  death  his  whole 
property,  a  large  entailed  estate,  went  to  my 

eldest    and    only    brother Francis    Clarence. 

We  never  loved  each  other ;  he  had  no  magna 
nimity  of  temper  to  reconcile  me  to  the  injustice  of 
fortune.  He  was  a  calculating  sensualist,  governed 
by  one  object  and  motive,  his  own  interest.  I  was 
naturally  of  a  generous  and  open  temper.  Our 
paths  diverged.  He  entered  the  fashionable  and 
political  world.  I  drudged  contentedly  in  mercan 
tile  business  for  an  humble  living.  He  married  a 
woman  of  rank  and  fortune.  I  a  beautiful  unpoiv 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  59 

tioned  girl.  Her  name  was  Mary  Temple.  It  is 
now  almost  thirty  years  since  I  have  pronounced 
that  name,  save  in  my  dreams.  She  was  your  mo 
ther.  I  have  forgiven  her. 

w  You  were  born  at  a  cottage  near  Clifton.  When 
I  first  took  you  in  my  arms,  I  was  conscious  of  a 
controlling  religious  emotion ;  I  fell  on  my  knees 
and  dedicated  you  to  Heaven ;  I  now  believe  my 
prayer  was  heard. 

"  I  must  not  stir  the  embers  of  unholy  passions ;  an 
evil  spirit  entered  my  paradise ;  I  was  persuaded 
that  it  was  imbecile  and  ignoble  passively  to  bear 
the  yoke  of  a  lowly  fortune  ;  and  to  permit  my  lovely 
wife  to  remain  in  obscurity.  Favor  and  patronage 
were  offered,  and  a  road  to  certain  wealth  opened 
to  me  in  a  lucrative  business  in  the  West  Indies. 
My  wife  and  child  could  not  be  exposed  to  a  tropi 
cal  climate,  they  were  to  be  left  to  my  brother's 
protection.  My  brother  was  my  tempter.  Oh !  the 
folly  of  foregoing  the  certain  enjoyment  of  the  best 
gifts  of  Heaven  in  pursuit  of  riches — at  best  a 
perilous  possession,  and  when  the  foundations  of 
human  happiness  are  gone,  virtue  and  domestic 
affection,  a  scourge,  a  curse  !  Two  years  passed  j 
my  wife's  letters,  the  only  solace  of  my  exile,  became 
infrequent.  Some  rumors  reached  my  ear.  I  em 
barked  for  England.  My  brother  and  wife  were  in 
France  ! Be  calm,  my  son — I  can  bear  no  agi 
tation 1  followed  them — I  found  them  living  in 

luxury  in  Paris.  I  broke  into  their  apartment; 
I  aimed  a.  loaded  pistol  at  my  wife;  my  bro 
ther  wrested  it  from  me;  we  fought;  I  left  him 


60  CLARENCE;  OR 

dying ;  returned  to  England,  got  possession  of  you. 
and  re-embarked  for  Jamaica." 

Here,  in  spite  of  the  force  Carroll  had  put  on 
his  feelings,  "  My  mother  ?"  escaped  from  his  lips. 

"Your  mother;  she  died  long  since  in  misery 
and  penitence." 

"  In  penitence  ;  thank  God  for  that." 

"  I  returned  with  a  desperate  vigor  to  my  business  : 
by  degrees,  my  son,  you  won  me  back  to  life ;  but 
I  had  horrid  passions ;  passions,  that  never  slum 
bered  nor  slept,  tormenting  my  soul,  and  I  was  not 
to  be  trusted  with  the  training  of  a  spirit  destined 
for  heaven.  When  you  were  five  years  old,  your 
health  drooped.  The  physicians  prescribed  a 
change  of  climate.  I  had  a  clerk,  John  Savil,  a 
patient,  and  as  I  thought  faithful  drudge.  He  was 
going  to  England  on  business  for  me,  and  was  to 
return  directly.  I  intrusted  you  to  his  care,  and 
also  a  large  sum  of  money  to  be  remitted  to  Eng 
land.  This  money  was  the  price  of  the  sordid 
wretch's  virtue.  While  the  English  ship  in  which 
he  was  embarked  lay  in  the  harbor,  awaiting  the 
serving  of  the  tide,  he  escaped  with  you,  in  a  small 
boat,  to  an  American  vessel.  During  the  night  a 
hurricane  arose.  All  night,  wild  with  apprehension, 
I  paced  the  beach.  The  morning  dawned;  the 
sun  shone  out,  but  I  could  neither  be  persuaded 
nor  compelled  from  the  shore,  till  the  news  was 
brought  in  by  a  pilot-boat,  that  the  English  ship  was 
capsized  and  that  every  soul  on  board  had  perished. 
"  1  was  then  first  seized  with  epileptic  fits ;  the 
effect  of  exposure  to  a  vertical  sun,  combined  with 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  61 

my  grief  and  despair.  This  malady  has  since  re 
curred  at  every  violent  excitement  of  my  feelings. 
The  wretch  who  robbed  me  of  my  only  treasure  wa- 
the  same  whom  I  discovered  at  my  lodgings  in 
Wiiliam-street ;  the  miser.  In  my  trunk  you  will  j 
find  a  manuscript  I  obtained  from  him.  It  contains 
the  particulars  and  explanation  of  his  crime,  and 
the  fullest  proof  that  you  are  my  son.  This  disco 
very  brought  on  a  return  of  my  disease,  which  had  / 
well  nigh  ended  my  suffering  life,  when  Frank 
brought  you  to  me.  God  only  knows  how  I  sur 
vived  that  moment  of  intense  joy. 

"  But  I  must  return  to  those  years  which  have  worn 
so  deep  their  furrows.  Time  seared,  without  heal 
ing  my  wounds.  I  resumed  my  business ;  all  other 
interests  were  now  merged  in  a  passion  for  the  ac 
quisition  of  property.  I  seemed  endued  with  a  ma-  / 
gic  that  turned  all  I  touched  to  gold.  I  never  mis-j 
took  this  success  for  happiness ;  no,  the  sweet  fbun-i 
tains  of  happiness  were  converted  to  bitterness.  Me-; 
mory  was  cursed  and  hope  blasted ;  I  was  not  sordid,  1 
but  I  loved  the  excitement  of  a  great  game,  it  wasj 
a  relief  to  my  feverish  mind. 

"  After  a  while,  I  formed  one  of  those  liasons 
common  in  those  islands,  where  man  is  as  careless 
of  the  moral  as  the  physical  rights  of  his  fellow- 
creatures.  'Eli  Clairon  was  the  daughter  of  a  French 
merchant ;  she  had  been  educated  in  France,   and 
added  to  rare  beauty  and  the  fascinations  of  a  ver 
satile   character,  the  refinements   of  polished  life. 
Though  tinged  with  African  blood,  I  would  have  | 
married  her,  but  I  was  then  still  bound  by  legal  ties«j 
Her  mother,  whose  ruling  passion  was  a  love  of  ex^" 

VOL.  I.  6 


CLARENCE;   OH 

pense,  to  which  I  gave  unlimited  indulgence,  con 
nived  at  our  intimacy,  till  the  arrival  of 'Eli's  father 
from  France.  He  had  contracted  there  an  advan 
tageous  matrimonial  alliance  for  her.  I  was  absent 
from  her  in  the  upper  country.  She  was  forced  on 
board  a  vessel,  in  spite  of  her  pleadings  and  protes 
tations.  The  first  accounts  from  the  ship  brought 
i  the  intelligence  that  she  had  refused  all  sustenance, 
and  thrown  herself  into  the  sea. 

"O  my  son,  did  not  the  curse  of  Heaven  fall  on 
every  thing  I  loved  ?  I  believed  so.  'Eli  left  a  son  ; 
I  resolved  never  again  to  see  him — never  again  to 
bind  myself  with  cords  which  I  had  a  too  just  pre 
sentiment  would  be  torn  away,  to  leave  bleeding, 
festering  wounds.  I  supplied  the  child's  pecuniary 
wants,  through  his  grandmother.  She  contrived  af 
terwards  to  introduce  him,  without  exciting  my  sus 
picion,  among  the  slaves  of  my  family.  He  was  a 
creature  of  rare  talent,  and  soon  insinuated  himself 
into  my  affections.  It  was  his  custom  to  sit  on  a 
cushion  at  my  feet  after  dinner,  and  sing  me  to 
sleep.  There  was  a  Spaniard,  a  villain,  whom  I 
had  detected,  and  held  up  to  public  scorn.  The 
wretch  found  his  way  to  my  apartment  when  I  was 
taking  my  evening  repose.  I  was  awakened  by  a 
scream  from  Marcelline.  He  threw  himself  on  my 
bosom,  and  received  through  his  shoulder  the  thrust 
of  the  Spaniard's  dirk.  The  assassin  escaped.  I 
folded  the  boy  in  my  arms ;  I  believed  him  to  be 
dying ;  he  believed  it  too,  and  fondly  clinging  to 
me,  exctaimed,  *  I  am  glad  of  it — I  am  glad  of  it — 
I  have  saved  my  father's  life !' 


A  TALE  OF  OTJR  OWN  TIMES. 


63 


-"  From  that  moment  he  recovered  the  rights  of  j 
nature,  and  became  the  object  of  my  doating  fond-| 
ness ;  but  no  flower  could  spring  up  in  my  path 
but  a  blight  was  on  it.  My  temper  was  poisoned ? 
I  had  become  jealous  and  distrustful.  Poor  Mar- 
celline  was  facile  in  his  temper,  and  was  sometimes 
the  tool  of  his  sordid  grandmother,  to  extract  money 
from  me.  I  was  often  unjust  to  the  boy.  Oh !  how 
bitterly  I  cursed  the  wealth,  that  made  me  uncertain 
of  the  truth  of  my  boy's  affection! 

"  Marcelline  was  passionate  in  his  attachments, 
guileless,  unsuspicious,  the  easy  victim  of  the  artifices 
of  bolder  minds.  At  sixteen,  he  was  seduced  into  an  | 
affair  in  which  his  reputation  arid  life  were  at  hazard...  J 
He  believed  he  owed  his  salvation  to  the  interference 
of  a  young  Englishman.  In  the  excess  of  his  gratitude, 
and  at  the  risk  of  disgrace  with  me,  he  disclosed  the 
whole  affair  to  me,  and  claimed  my  favor  for  the 
stranger,  who  proved  to  be  my  nephew,  Winstead 
Clarence.  My  soul  recoiled  from  him  ;  he  was  the 
image  of  my  brother :  but  for  Marcelline' s  sake,  I 
stifled  my  feelings,  permitted  Winstead  to  become  a 
member  of  my  family,  and  thus  was  my  self  the  pas 
sive  instrument  of  my  poor  boy's  destruction. 

"  I  have  not  strength  for  further  details.  Young 
Clarence  was  no  doubt  moved  to  his  infernal  machi 
nations  by  the  hope  of  ruining  Marcelline  in  my  fa 
vor,  and,  as  my  heir  at  law,  succeeding  to  my  for 
tune.  My  broken  constitution  stimulated  his  cupi 
dity.  Practised  as  I  was  in  the  world,  his  arts  de 
ceived  me.  My  poor  boy  was  a  far  easier  vic 
tim.  He  destroyed  our  mutual  confidence.  While, 
to  me,  he  appeared  the  mentor  of  my  son,  he 


4  CLARENCE;  OR 

was  decoying  him  into  scenes  of  dissipation  and 
vice ;  and  while,  to  Marcelline,  he  seemed  his  friend 
and  advocate,  he  magnified  the  poor  fellow's  real 
faults,  and  imputed  to  him  duplicity  and  deliberate 
ingratitude.  Incited  by  Winstead,  Marcelline  gamed 
deeply ;  and  on  the  brink  of  ruin,  he  confessed  to 
me  his  losses,  and  entreated  pardon  and  relief.  I 
spurned  him  from  me.  He  was  stung  to  the  heart. 
Winstead  seized  the  favorable  moment,  to  aggra 
vate  his  resentment  and  despair.  He  retired  to 
his  own  apartment,  and  inflicted  on  himself  a  mortal 
wound.  I  heard  the  report  of  the  pistol,  and  flew 
*o  him.  He  survived  a  few  hours.  We  passed  them 
in  mutual  explanations,  and  mutual  forgiveness. 
Thus  did  I  trample  under  my  feet  the  sweet  flower 
that  had  shed  a  transient  fragrance  in  my  desolate 
path! 

"I  once  again  saw  Winstead  Clarence;  I  in 
voked  curses  on  his  head.  I  now  most  solemnly 
revoke  those  curses. 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  adjust  my  affairs,  I  left  the 
West  Indies  for  ever,  execrating  them  as  the  pecu 
liar  temple  of  that  sordid  divinity,  on  whose  altar, 
from  their  discovery  to  the  present  day,  whatever  is 
most  precious,  youth,  health,  and  virtue,  have  been 
sacrificed. 

"  My  brother  was  dead  ;  but  Winstead  Clarence 
had  returned  to  England  :  and  I  abjured  my  native 
land,  and  came  to  the  United  States,  where  I  was 
soon  known  to  be  a  man  of  great  riches,  and  preca 
rious  health.  I  was,  or  fancied  myself  to  be,  the  ob 
ject  of  sordid  attentions,  a  natural  prey  to  be  hunted 
down  ty  mean  spirits.  My  petulance  was  patiently 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  65 

endured;  my  misanthropy  forgiven;  I  was  told 
I  was  quite  too  young  to  abandon  the  thoughts  of 
marriage,  and  scores  of  discreet  widows  and  estima 
ble  maidens  were  commended  to  my  favor.  Lite 
rary  institutions  were  recommended  to  my  patron 
age,  and  emissaries  from  benevolent  societies  opened 
their  channels  to  my  meritorious  gifts.  Wearied 
with  solicitations,  and  disgusted  with  interested  at 
tentions,  I  determined  to  come  to  New  York,  where 
I  was  yet  unknown. 

"  Scorning  the  consequence  of  wealth,  and  indif 
ferent  to  its'  luxuries,  I  assumed  the  exterior  of  po 
verty  ;  and  the  better  to  secure  my  incognito,  I  hired  a 
lodging  at  the  old  Dutch  woman's,  where  I  remained 
in  unviolated  solitude  till  my  meeting  with  Frank 
stimulated  once  more  to  action,  that  inextinguish 
able  thirst  of  happiness  which  can  alone  be  obtained 
through  the  ministry  of  the  affections.  Frank's 
striking  resemblance  to  you  _at  the  period  when  I  lost 
you  revived  my  parental  love— -a  deathless  affection. 
Jle  seemed  to  me  an  angel  moving  on  the  troubled 
waters  of  my  life.  I  sedulously  concealed  my  real 
condition  from  him,  even  after  I  had  determined  to 
bestow  on  him  the  perilous  gift  of  my  fortune.  I 
distrusted  myself — I  dreaded  awaking  those  horrid 
jealousies  that  had  embittered  my  life — I  wished  to 
be  sure  that  he  loved  me  for  myself  alone. 

"  You  may  now  conceive  my  emotion  when  I  dis 
covered  that  my  son  lived — was  near  me — was  the 
father  of  Frank  Carroll — when  you  saved  me  from 
being  sent  to  the  alms-house,  an  accident  to  which 
I  had  exposed  myself  by  my  carelessness  in  not  pre 
paring  for  the  exigency  that  occurred.  But  you 


66 


CLARENCE;  OR 


cannot  comprehend — who  can,  but  He  who  breathed 
into  me  this  sentient  spirit,  who  knows  the  whole 
train  of  events  that  have  borne  it  to  the  brink  of 
eternal  ruin — who  but  He,  the  All-Seeing  One,  can 
comprehend  my  feelings  when  I  found  myself  be 
neath  my  child's  roof:  when  I  found  what  I  be 
lieved  did  not  exist — a  disinterested  man,  and  him 
my  son !  when  I  received  disinterested  kindness, 
and  from  my  children ! 

"  Forgive  me,  my  son,  for  so  long  concealing  the 
truth  from  you ;  it  was  not  merely  to  strengthen  my 
convictions  of  your  worth,  but  I  deferred  emotions 
that  I  doubted  my  strength  to  endure.  When  I  am 
gone,  you  will  find  yourself  the  heir  of  a  rich  inhe 
ritance  ;  it  may  make  you  a  more  useful — I  fear  it 
will  not  a  happier  man. 

"  In  my  wrongs  and  sufferings,  my  son,  you  must 
find  the  solution,  I  do  not  say  the  expiation,  of  my 
doubts  of  an  overruling  Providence — my  disbelief 
of  the  immortality  of  that  nature  which  seemed  to 
me  abandoned  to  contend  with  the  elements  of  sin  and 
suffering,  finally  to  be  wrecked  on  a  shoreless  ocean. 
Believe  me,  human  life,  without  religious  faith,  is  a 
deep  mystery. 

"  But,  my  dear  father,"  said  Mr.  Carroll  "you 
have  now  the  light  of  that  faith  ;  you  now  look  back 
on  the  dark  passages  of  life  without  distrust,  and  for 
ward  with  hope  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  my  son;  my  griefs  had  their  appointed 
mission  ;  the  furnace  was  kindled  to  purify  ;  it  was 
my  sin  if  it  consumed.  But  how  shall  I  express  my 
sense  of  that  merry  that  guided  me  to  this  hour  of 
peace  and  joy,  by  those  dark  passages  through  which 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  67 

I  blindly  blundered!  My  son,  there  is  an  exaltation 
of  feeling  in  this  full  trust,  this  tranquil  resignation, 
this  deep  gratitude,  that  bears  to  the  depths  of  my 
soul  the  assurance  of  immortality.  I  now  for  the  | 
first  time  feel  a  capacity  of  happiness,  over  which 
death  has  no  power — it  is  itself  immortal  life,  and 
I  long  to  pass  the  boundary  of  that  world  whence 
these  glorious  intimations  come. 

"  My  beloved  son,  do  not  wish  to  protract  my  ex 
hausted  being.  I  should  but  linger,  not  live;  to 
morrow,  if  I  am  permitted  to  survive  till  then,  I  will 
press  your  children  to  my  bosom  and  give  them  my 
farewell  blessing.  Kneel  by  me,  my  son,  and  let  us 
send  up  together  an  offering  of  faith  and  thanksgiv 
ing  to  God." 

During  the  following  evening,  Mr.  Carroll  com 
municated  the  secret  to  Dr.  Eustace  and  his  family. 
The  doctor  commended  his  prudence  in  so  long 
withholding  it,  sympathized  with  his  sorrow,  and 
congratulated  him  on  his  prospects.  Mr.  Carroll 
shrunk  from  his  congratulations.  The  wealth  that 
had  been  attended  by  such  misery  to  Mr.  Flavel,  and 
must  come  to  him  by  the  death  of  his  parent,  seemed 
to  him  a  doubtful  good. 

Nothing  could  be  more  confused  than  Mrs.  Car 
roll's  sensations.  She  was  half  resentful  that  the 
precious  secret  had  so  long  been  detained  from  her  ; 
and  quite  overjoyed  to  find  it  what  it  was.  She  was 
afraid  some  attention  to  Mr.  Flavel  might  have  been 
omitted,  and  from  the  first  he  had  appeared  to  her 
such  an  interesting  person  ! — such  a  perfect  gen 
tleman  ! — and  then  there  was  a  deep,  unhinted 
leeling  of  relief  at  finding  out  at  last  that  her  hus- 


68  CLARENCE;  OR 

band — her  dear  husband,  was   of  genteel  extrac 
tion. 

From  his  children  Mr.  Carroll  received  the  so 
lace  of  true  sympathy.  "  Is  Mr.  Flavel  our  grand 
father  ?"  said  Gertrude,  "  and  must  he  die  ?"  Frank 
remained  constantly  in  a  closet  adjoining  the  sick 
room,  listening  and  looking,  when  he  might  look, 
without  being  perceived.  Doctor  Eustace  made  his 
morning  visit  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual.  He 
found  his  patient  had  declined  so  rapidly  during  the 
night,  that  life  was  nearly  extinct. 

"  Tell  me  truly,  my  good  friend,"  he  said  to  the 
doctor,  "  how  long  you  think  I  may  live  ?" 

"  Your  life  is  fast  ebbing,  my  dear  sir." 

"  Then,  my  son,  call  your  wife  and  children :  let 
me  call  them  mine  before  1  die." 

They  were  summoned,  and  came  immediately. 
Mrs.  Carroll's  heart  was  really  touched ;  she  said 
nothing,  but  knelt  at  the  bed-side.  The  children 
did  not  restrain  their  sorrow  ;  Frank  sprang  on  the 
bed,  kissed  Mr.  Flavel' s  cheek,  and  poured  his  tears 
over  it.  Mr.  Carroll  would  have  removed  him,  but 
his  father  signed  to  him  to  let  him  remain.  "  Frank, 
jny  sweet  child,"  he  said,  "  God  sent  you  to  me  ; 
you  saved  me  from  dying  alone,  unknown,  and 
in  ignorance  of  my  treasures — you  brought  me 
to  my  long  lost  son !" 

Here  Conolly,  the  Irish  nurse,  who  was  sitting 
behind  Mr.  Flavel  supporting  him  in  an  upright  po 
sition,  gave  involuntary  expression  to  his  pleasure 
at  the  solution  of  the  riddle  that  had  wrought  his 
curiosity  to  the  highest  pitch.  "  Sure,"  he  said, "  and 
it's  what  I  thought,  he's  his  own  son's  father,  sure 
is  he!" 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  69 

This  exclamation  was  unheeded  by  the  parties  in 
the  strong  excitement  of  the  moment,  but  afterwards 
they  had  ample  reason  to  recall  it. 

"My  children,  my  children;"  continued  Mr. 
Flavel,  "  live  to  God ;  I  have  lived  without  Him ; 
the  world  has  been  a  desert  to  me ;  I  die  with  the 
hope  of  his  forgiveness;  God  bless  you,  my  chil 
dren  ;  kiss  me,  my  son ;  where  are  you,  Frank  ? 
I  see  you;  farewell!"  His  voice  had  become 
fainter  at  every  sentence,  and  died  away  at  the 
last  word.  Still  his  eye,  bright  and  intelligent, 
dwelt  on  his  son,  till  after  a  few  moments  he  closed 
it  for  ever. 

A  deep  silence  ensued;  Mr.  Carroll  remained 
kneeling  beside  his  father;  his  eyes  were  raised, 
and  his  lips  quivering.  But  who  can  give  utter 
ance  to  the  thoughts  that  crowd  on  the  mind  at 
the  death  of  the  beloved  ; — when  aching  memory 
flashes  her  light  over  the  past,  and  faith  pours  on 
the  soul  her  glorious  revelations ;  when  the  spirit 
from  its  high  station  surveys  and  feels  the  whole  of 
human  destiny! 


CLARENCE;    OR 


CHAPTER  VI. 

;>That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 

I  must  and  will  deny  : 
They  say  their  master  is  a  knave. 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie." 

"  AT  this  moment  I  must  think  for  you,"  said 
Dr.  Eustace  to  Mr.  Carroll,  after  the  family  had 
withdrawn  from  the  cha  her  of  death  ;  "  of  course 
you  will  wish  to  avoid  for  the  present  the  public 
disclosure  of  the  circumstance  recently  developed?" 

"  Certainly." 

'  Then  lay  what  restrictions  you  please  on  Mrs. 
Carroll  and  the  children,  I  will  take  care  that  Co- 
nolly  does  not  gossip."  Accordingly  the  funeral 
rites  were  performed  in  a  private  and  quiet  manner. 
The  clergyman,  and  the  few  necessary  assistants 
were  struck  with  the  grief  of  the  family  being  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  event ;  <  but,'  said  they,  *  death 
is  always  an  affecting  circumstance,  and  the  Carrolls 
are  tender-hearted.' 

On  the  morning  after  the  funeral  Mrs.  Carroll 
was  washing  the  breakfast-things,  her  head  busy 
with  various  thoughts.  To  some  she  gave  utterance 
and  suppressed  others,  pretty  much  after  the  follow 
ing  manner :  "  Charles,  my  dear,  I  think  we  had 
best  give  Conolly  Mr.  Flavel's— la!  how  can  I  al 
ways  forget — our  dear  father's  clothes ;  I  believe  it 
is  customary  in  England  for  people  of  fortune  to 
do  so." 

"Give  Conolly  what  consideration  you  please, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  71 

Sarah,  but  leave  my  father's  personal  effects  undis 
turbed." 

Mrs.  Carroll  nodded  assent,  "  I  do  wonder,"  she 
continued,  "  what  cousin  Anne  will  say  now !  she 
did  ridicule  our  taking  in  a  pauper,  as  she  called 
him,  beyond  every  thing" — to  herself,  "  I  did  keep 
it  as  secret  as  possible,  but  we  shall  be  rewarded 
openly !  what  a  mercy  Charles  never  suspected  his 
riches ;  if  he  had,  he  would  just  have  sent  him  to 
lodgings  ;"  aloud,  "  Only  think,  dear,  the  children 
the  other  day  in  Mr.  Flavel's — how  can  I ! — our 
father's  room,  asked  me  to  send  them  to  dancing 
school;  I  told  them  I  could  not  afford  it;  he 
smiled,  I  little  thought  for  what — dear  souls  !  they 
shall  go  now  as  soon  as  it  is  proper" — to  herself, 
"  can't  afford  it — thank  heaven,  I  have  done  for 
ever  with  that  hateful,  vulgar  phrase."  "  By  the 
way,  Charles,  I  saw  in  the  Evening  Post,  that  the 
Roscoes'  house  is  to  be  sold  next  week ;  it  would 
just  suit  us." 

"  The  Roscoes'  house ;  my  dear  wife,  the  Ros 
coes  have  been  my  best,  at  one  time,  my  only 
friends ;  I  could  not  be  happy  where  I  was  con 
tinually  reminded  of  their  reverse  of  fortune." 

"  Oh,  well ;  I  do  not  care  about  that  house  in 
particular ;  there  are  others  that  would  suit  me  quite 
as  well ;  but  I  hope  you  will  attend  to  it  at  once ; 
this  house  is  so  excessively  small  and  inconvenient." 
Mr.  Carroll  assured  his  wife  that  she  must  suppress 
her  new-born  sensibility  to  the  discomforts  of  her 
dwelling ;  "  for  his  own  part,"  he  said,  "  he  had  no 
heart  for  immediate  change.  His  mind  was  occu 
pied  with  sad  reflections,  softened,  he  trusted,  by 


CXARENCE;  OR 

gratitude  for  singular  mercies.  Besides,  it  was 
necessary,  and  he  rejoiced  it  was  so,  before  he 
could  receive  any  portion  of  his  father's  property, 
that  his  claim  to  it  should  be  admitted  in  England, 
where  it  was  vested ;  he  wished,  therefore,  that  Mrs. 
Carroll  would  not  at  present  make  the  slightest  va 
riation  in  their  mode  of  life.  She  submitted,  but 
not  without  betraying  her  reluctance,  by  saying, 
she  wondered  what  forms  of  business  were  for,  they 
were  too  provoking,  too  stupid,  and  so  utterly  un 
necessary  ! 

Mr.  Carroll  made  no  farther  secret  of  the  change 
in  his  prospects.  He  assumed  the  name  of  Cla 
rence,  and  forwarded  the  necessary  documents  to 
England.  In  other  respects  he  kept  on  the  even 
tenor  of  his  way. 

About  six  months  after  a  certain  John  Ri 
der,  Esq.,  a  lawyer  better  known  for  his  profes 
sional  success  in  the  mayor's  court  than  for  his  dis 
tinction  before  any  higher  tribunal,  joined  a  knot 
of  Irishmen  who  were  hovering  round  a  grocery- 
door,  and  earnestly  debating  some  question  that 
had  kindled  their  combustible  passions.  It  ap 
peared  they  were  at  the  moment  particularly  jealous 
of  the  interference  of  an  officer  of  the  law,  for  one 
and  all  darted  at  him  looks  of  impatient  inquiry  and 
fierce  defiance.  The  leader  of  the  gang  advanced 
with  a  half  articulated  curse.  He  was  pulled  back 
by  one  of  his  companions.  "  Be  civil,  man,"  he 
said,  "it's  his  honor,  Lawyer  Rider ;  he'll  ne'er  be 
the  one  to  scald  his  mouth  with  other  folks'  broth,'' 

"  Ah,  Conolly,  is  that  you  ?" 

"  Indeed  is  it,  your  honor  ;  was  it  me  your  honor 
was  wanting?" 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  73 

"Yes;  I  have  been  to  your  house,  and  Biddy 
told  me  I  should  probably  find  you  here." 

"  And  what  for  was  she  sending  your  honor  to  the 
grocer's  ?  She  might  better  have  guided  you  any 
way  else  to  find  me." 

"  To  seek  you,  may  be,  Conolly,  but  not  to  find 
you." 

"  Ah,  your  honor's  caught  me  there ;  but  I'll 
tache  the  old  woman." 

Rider  perceived  from  Conolly's  flushed  cheek, 
that  he  was  in  a  humor  to  demonstrate  some  do 
mestic  problems  that  might  not  be  agreeable  to  a 
spectator,  and  therefore  instead  of  accompanying 
him  to  his  own  room,  to  transact  some  private  busi 
ness  he  had  with  him,  he  proposed  to  him  to  walk 
up  the  street.  Conolly  assented,  saying  to  his  com 
panions  as  he  left  them,  "  Stay  a  bit,  lads,  and  I'll 
spake  to  Lawyer  Rider  about  it." 

"  About  what  is  that,  Conolly  ?" 

"Is  it  that  your  honor  has  not  heard  about 
Jemmy  McBride  and  Dr.  Eustace  ?"  The  doctor's 
name  was  followed  by  an  imprecation  that  expressed 
but  too  plainly,  '  Jemmy  and  the  whole  Irish  nation 
versus  the  doctor.' 

"I  have  heard  something  of  this  unlucky  affair, 
but  you  may  tell  me  more,  Conolly." 

"  Indeed  can  I ;  for  wasn't  I  there  while  his 
knife  was  yet  red  with  the  blood  of  him  ?  and  wasn't 
Jem  my  father's  own  brother's  son?" 

"  But  Conolly,  yofe  do  not  believe  the  doctor  had 
any  thing  to  do  with  McBride's  death  ?" 

"  That  I  do  not  say.  But  I  believe,  by  my  soul  I 
do,  the  doctors  have  more  to  do  with  death  than 

VOL.  I.  7 


74  CLARENCE;  OR 

life,  the  heretics  in  particular,  saving  your  honor's 
presence.  Any  way,  Jemmy  McBride  died  in  his 
hands,  and  the  very  time  he  had  said  the  poor  fellow 
was  mending ;  but  that  was  all  to  keep  the  priest 
away.  Never  a  confession  did  Jem  make ;  never  a 
bit  prayer  was  said  over  him,  nor  the  holy  sign  put 
on  him ;  nor,  Mr.  Rider,  as  true  as  my  name's  Pat 
Conolly,  was  there  a  light  lighted  for  his  soul  to 
pass  by.  The  next  night  the  doctor  told  Jemmy's 
wife,  a  poor  innocent  cratur  that  knew  no  better, 
that  he  was  going  to  examine  the  body  to  look  after 
the  disease  a  bit ;  and  so  she,  God  forgive  her,  gives 
him  a  light,  and  he  goes  in  the  room  and  makes 
fast  the  door.  But  you  see,  the  old  woman,  Jem's 
wife's  mother,  looked  through  the  key-hole,  and  she 
saw  him  at  his  devil's  work,  and  she  ran,  wild-like, 
to  the  neighbors,  and  there  were  a  dozen  of  us  at 
Roy  McPhelan's,  that  were  thinking  to  keep  poor 
Jemmy's  wake  that  night,  and  we  made  a  rush  of  it, 
and  forced  the  door,  and  there  stood  he  over  poor 
Jem,  and  such  cutting  and  slashing,  och  !  my  heart 
bleeds  to  think  of  it;  indeed  does  it,  and  poor 
Jemmy's  soul  tormented  the  while ;  for  it's  sure, 
your  honor,  his  soul  was  there  looking  on  his  body 
handled  that  way  by  a  heretic.  Roy  seized  his 
knife,  and  would  have  had  the  life  of  him,  but  Jem's 
wife  set  up  such  a  howling,  and  she  held  Roy's  arm, 
and  made  us  all  stand  back  while  she  said  the  doctor 
had  shown  kindness  to  her  and  hers,  and  we  should 
first  kill  her  before  a  hair  of  him  should  be  the  worse 
for  it.  And  then  he  calls  to  me,  and  he  says, 
*  Conolly,'  for  he  knew  me,  it's  six  months  past 
when  I  was  nurse  to  one  Flavel,  and  he  says,  {  Co- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  75 

uolly,  my  friend,'  (the  devil  a  bit  friend  to  the  like  of 
him!)  'Conolly,'  he  says,  '  you'll  get  yourselves 
into  trouble  at  this  mad  rate.  Go,  like  honest  men, 
and  make  your  complaint  of  me,  and  let  the  law 
take  its  course.'  And  there  was  one  Mclnster 
among  us,  wjj#  is  but  half  an  Irishman,  for  his 
grandmother  was  full  Scotch,  and  he's  always  for 
keeping  the  sword  in  the  scabbard,  and  he  would 
be  for  persuading  us  to  the  law,  and  while  we  were 
all  giving  our  advice,  in  a  breath  like,  Jemmy's 
wife  whips  the  doctor  through  a  side  door,  down  a 
back  passage  ;  and  once  at  the  street-door,  he  made 
a  bird's  flight  of  it.  Btit  we'll  have  our  revenge.  A 
hundred  oaths  are  sworn  to  it." 

"  Don't  be  rash,  Conolly.-  Have  you  consulted 
a  lawyer?" 

"  That  have  we,  Mr.  Rider,  and  he  says  there's 
no  law  for  us,  and  sure  is  it  the  laws  are  made  for 
cowards,  and  we'll  stand  by  ourselves." 

"  Listen  to  my  advice,  Conolly,  you  know  I 
am  a  friend  to  the  Irish — you  know  how  hard  I 
worked  for  you  all  in  Billy  McGill's  business." 

"Ay,  your  honor,  sure  you  did  make  black 
white  there.  Did  not  I  say  you  was  a  lawyer, 
every  hair  of  you  ?" 

Rider  was  compelled  to  swallow  Conolly's  com 
pliment,  equivocal  as  it  was,  and  he  replied,  "  I  do 
indeed  know  something  of  the  law,  and  believe  me, 
it  will  be  the  worse  for  you  all  if  you  take  any  vio 
lent  measures.  The  doctor,  though  a  young  man, 
is  well  known,  and  has  many  friends  in  the  city. 
That  Mr.  Carroll,  or  Clarence  as  he  calls  himself, 
at  whose  house  you  first  knew  him,  is  ready  to  up- 


'*>  CLARENCE;  OR 

hold  him  in  every  thing.  You  have  not  heard, 
perhaps,  Conolly,  that  the  old  man  you  nursed  left 
a  grand  fortune  ?" 

"Lord  help  us!  no.  I  have  been  out  of  the 
city  ever  since  the  old  gentleman's  funeral,  till 
Easter  Sunday,  the  very  day  poor  Jemmy  died." 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  this  Carroll  claims  to 
be  son  to  the  old  gentleman  ?" 

"  Ay,  sure,  did  not  I  hear  him  with  my  own  ears 
call  him  so  ?" 

"  Just  state  to  me,  Conolly,  precisely  what  you 
recollect  about  this  matter." 

"  Some  other  time,  your  honor,  the  fellows  are 
waiting  for  me  now." 

"  Heaven  and  earth,  man  !  you  must  not  put  it 
off;  it's  a  matter  of  the  first  importance,  and  here's 
something  to  make  all  right  with  your  friends." 

Conolly  pocketed  the  douceur,  smirking,  and 
saying,  "  Sure  I'll  do  my  best  to  pleasure  you  Mr. 
Rider ;  but  my  head's  all  in  a  snarl  with  Jemmy  and 
this  d d  doctor." 

"  Begin  and  you  will  soon  get  it  clear — you  were 
some  time  at  Carroll's  ?" 

"  That  was  1,  and  for  a  time  it  was  all  plain  sail 
ing,  though  the  old  gentleman  used  to  mutter  so 
in  his  sleep,  and  look  at  Mr.  Carroll  so  through  and 
through  like,  that  I  thought  there  was  more  on  his 
mind  than  we  knew  of;  and,  I  was  sure  from  the 
first  he  was  no  poor  body,  for  he  had  the  ways  of  a 
gentleman  entirely,  and  you  know  they  are  as  differ 
ent  as  fish  and  flesh." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Conolly  j  go  on,  we  all  know  he  wa« 
a  gentleman." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  77 

"  And  you  know  too,  maybe,  that  he  had  epileptics. 
Well  one  day  after  they  had  had  a  long  nonsense 
talk  about  riches,  Mr.  Carroll  sent  us  all  out  of  the 
room  to  stay  till  he  rung,  and  sure  he  did  ring,  dis 
tracted  like  ;  when  we  came  in  the  room  the  old  gen 
tleman  was  in  fits,  and  Mr.  Carroll  was  not  much 
better  ;  and  from  that  time  he  was  an  altered  man  ; 
he  had  been  kind  before,  but  now  it  was  quite  en 
tirely  a  different  thing.  It  was  plain,  his  life  was 
bound  up  in  the  old  gentleman's.  I  had  nothing 
worth  speaking  of  to  do  any  more,  he  gave  him  all 
his  medicines,  and  his  eyes  was  never  off  him  day  or 
night,  and  they  would  often  be  alone  together.  I 
had  my  own  thoughts,  for  there  was  something  in 
their  looks,  I  need  not  describe  it  to  ye,  Mr.  Rider, 
for  if  you've  had  either  father  or  son  you  know  what 
it  is." 

For  an  instant  the  current'  of  Rider's  feelings 
turned,  it  was  but  an  instant,  and  he  said,  "  Yes,  I 
understand  you,  go  on." 

*    "I  have  not  far  to  go,  for  the  fire  burned  too  bright 
to  burn  long.     It  was  but  two  or  three  days  after 
that  he  found  himself  to  be  just  on  the  launch,  and 
he  told  Mr.  Carroll  to  call  in  the  family,  and  then  it 
all  came  out  just  as  I  expected,  your  honor.     He 
called  them  all  his  children,  and  Mr.  Carroll  '  my 
son'  again  and  again,  and  talked  to  the  child,  that's 
Frank  Carroll,  about  being  his  grandfather.    I  could 
tell  you  just  the  words  if  you  please." 
"  No,  they  are  of  no  consequence." 
"  Then,  your  honor,  there's  not  much  more  to 
tell.     They  all  cried  of  course  you  know,  and  1 
cried  too,  and  that's  what  I  have  not  done  before, 
7* 


CLARENCE;  OR 

since  I  quitted  home.  He  spoke  but  few  words, 
but  they  were  rightly  said  as  if  he'd  had  them  from 
the  priest's  lips,  and  then  he  just  sunk  away  like  an 
infant  falling  asleep." 

Rider  hesitated  for  a  few  moments;  Conolly' s 
statement  was  particularly  hostile  to  his  wishes,  and 
the  course  to  be  pursued  required  some  delibe 
ration  ;  "  These  epileptic  fits,"  he  said,  '<  are  very 
apt  to  derange  the  mind — the  doctors  tell  me  they 
always  weaken  it." 

"  Sure  they  lie  then  ;"  and  here  followed  an  exe 
cration  of  the  whole  faculty ;  "  I've  seen  men  die, 
many  a  one,  both  at  home  and  here  in  America, 
and  never  did  I  see  one  behave  himself  to  the  very 
last,  in  a  more  discreet,  regular,  gentale-like  man 
ner,  than  this  Mr.  Flavel ;  I  don't  know  how  he 
lived,  but  he  died  like  a  gentleman,  any  way." 

"  I  must  strike  another  key,"  thought  Rider ; 
"  Conolly,"  he  said,  "  jt  is  not  worth  while  to  dilly 
dally  about  this  matter  any  longer ;  I  know  I  may 
confide  in  you.  This  Mr.  Flavel,  or  rather  Cla 
rence,  had  an  own  brother's  son  in  England,  whom 
he  hated,  and  had  wronged.  If  he  died  without 
children,  and  without  a  will,  his  nephew  would,  of 
course,  be  his  natural  heir.  Now,  is  it  not  possi 
ble,  that,  feeling  very  grateful  to  this  Carroll,  he 
might  consent  to  pass  him  off  for  his  son ;  just  to 
call  him  so,  you  know  ?" 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Rider ;  he  did  not  die  like  a  man 
that  was  going  off  with  a  lie  in  his  mouth." 

"Perhaps  you  don't  consider  the  whole,  Conolly; 
it  was  an  innocent  deceit — stop,  hear  me  out — Car 
roll,  who,  besides  getting  the  fortune,  would  gladly 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  79 

wipe  off  the  disgrace  of  having  been  an  alms-house 
slip,  might  beguile  him  on ;  Eustace  combined  with 
him,  at  least  I  suspect  so,  and,"  he  added,  cautiously 
looking  about  him,  "if  he  keeps  the  fortune,  one 
thing  is  sure,  the  doctor  will  have  a  good  slice  of 
it;  he  will  swear  through  thick  and  thin,  every 
thing  Carroll  wants." 

"  Och  !  the  villain !  what  will  he  swear  ?" 
"  That  the  man  was  of  perfect  and  sound  mind ; 
Conolly,  this  is  a  hard  case  and  we  must  try  every 
expedient — every  way  to  get  justice  done ;  now  if 
you  will  stand  by  us — my  client  is  generous,  and  he 
has  authorized  me  to  spare  neither  pains  nor  money 
to  get  witnesses  for  him — name  a  particular  sum, 
my  good  fellow." 

"  For  what  ?  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do  just." 
"  Why,  in  the  first  place,  you  are  to  right  youv 
cause  with  this  doctor ;  he's  more  than  suspected 
already  of  leaguing  with  Carroll,  and  if  your  testi 
mony  goes  against  his,  he  can't  live  in  the  city." 
"Ah ;  that  would  pleasure  me  !" 
"And  if  three  or  four  hundred  dollars — ?" 
"  Three,  or  four !  four  !  I  have  one  hundred  al 
ready,  and  that  would  just  make  up  the  sum,  and 
fetch  them  all  over ;  the  old  man,  and  Peggy,  and 
Roy,  and  Davy,  and  Pat,  and  just  set  them  down 
gentalely  in  New  York- — -but  tell  me  how  deep  in,  it 
is  you  want  me  to  go  ?" 

"  That  we  must  consider ;  if  we  could  prove  the 
old  gentleman  was  not  in  his  right  mind." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Rider,  I  would  not  like  that;  it's 
ill  luck  dishonoring  the  dead  that  way." 

Rider3  like  a  careful  angler,  had  prepared  various 


80 


CLARENCE ;    OR 


baits  for  his  hook.  One  refused,  he  tried  another ; 
"  Well,  my  good  fellow,  if  you  cannot  on  your  con 
science  say,  that  you  think  the  old  gentleman  was  a 
little  out,  may  you  not  have  been  mistaken  in 
thinking  you  heard  those  words,  grandfather,  son, 
father  ?  hey,  Conolly .?" 

"You  marie,  Mr.  Rider,"  said  Conolly  with  an 
indescribable  leer,  "  whether  I  can't  quite  entirely 
forget  them ;  that  is  to  say,  swear  I  never  heard 
them  at  all  ?" 

Rider,  hardened  as  he  was,  felt  his  cheeks  tingle 
at  this  sudden  and  clear  exposition  of  his  meaning ; 
"  Why,  Conolly,  on  my  honor,"  he  said,  "  I  believe 
that  my  client  has  the  right  of  the  case,  and  we 
are  sometimes  forced,  you  know,  to  go  a  crooked 
path  to  get  to  the  right  spot.  Those  words 
might  have  dropped  from  the  old  man  acci 
dentally,  just  as  he  was  going  out  of  the  world,  and 
then  Carroll  and  the  doctor  between  them  might 
have  contrived  the  rest.  The  doctor  is  as  cunning 
as  the  devil  himself;  you  know  how  he  hoodwinked 

your  cousin's  wife — a  scandalous  affair  that  was 

and  yet  I  don't  know  how  you  are  to  right  your 
selves  ;  we  have  no  law  for  you,  Conolly,  and  you 
know  our  people  don't  like  club-law." 

"  D— n  the  law ;  the  law  was  made  for  villains ; 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Rider.  Its  true  I  can't 
sleep  till  we're  revenged  on  the  .doctor — four  hun 
dred  dollars  ye  say,  Mr.  Rider  ?  It  would  be  hea 
ven's  mercy  to  the  poor  souls  that's  starving  at 
home.  What  is  it  ye'll  have  me  forget  f"  Conol- 
ly's  conscience  had  by  this  time  become  as  confused 
as  his  mind.  The  opportunity  of  gratifying  his 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  81 

resentments  against  the  doctor,  and  of  obtaining 
the  means  of  bringing  to  this  land  of  plenty,  this 
full  sheaf,  his  lean  and  famished  brethren  at  home, 
overpowered  his  weak  principles,  and  his  real  good 
feeling,  and  he  listened  to  Rider's  lucid  and  impres 
sive  instructions  in  relation  to  the  testimony  he  was 
to  deliver,  with  strict  attention  and  with  reiterated 
promises  to  abide  by  them.  Rider  did  not  forget 
to  make  Conolly  fully  sensible  of  the  importance  of 
keeping  the  purport  of  their  interview  a  profound 
secret,  and  then  giving  him  a  farther  earnest  of  fu 
ture  favors,  he  bade  him  good  night.  As  Conolly' s 
*  God  bless  his  honor,'  and  <  long  life  to  him,'  died 
away  on  the  lawyer's  ear,  he  was  entering  a  plea  in 
arrest  of  judgment  before  the  tribunal  of  conscience. 
«  After  all,'  he  thought,  *  if  I  have  saved  Eustace's 
life  from  these  violent  devils,  I  have  done  more 
good  than  harm ;  another  man  might  have  let  them 
go  on ;  certain  it  is,  Eustace  once  out  of  the  way, 
the  property  would  have  been  ours ;'  his  thoughts 
diverged  a  little — '  ours  ?—  yes,  I  may  say  ours  ;  five 
thousand  pounds  if  I  gain  it ;  one  should  work 
hard  for  such  a  fee !' 

Mr.  Rider's  client  had  found  a  fit  instru 
ment  to  manage  his  cause;  a  most  unworthy 
member  of  that  profession  which  from  Cicero's 
day  to  our  own  times,  has  called  forth  the  genius, 
the  ardor,  the  self-sacrificing  zeal  of  the  noblest 
minds  of  every  age. 


CLARENCE;    OR 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"Are  you  good  men  and  true?" 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING, 

MR.  CLARENCE,  (we  shall  hereafter  call  this  gen 
tleman  by  his  rightful  name,)  as  has  been  stated,  trans 
mitted  to  his  deceased  father's  agents  in  England, 
such  documents  as  he  deemed  necessary  to  establish 
his  claim.  They  were  admitted  as  sufficient,  and 
satisfactory,  and  the  property,  amounting  to  about 
ninety  thousand  pounds  sterling,  was  transferred  to 
his  account,  and  transmitted  to  him. 

Mr.  Winstead  Clarence  was,  at  the  same  time, 
apprized  of  the  death  of  his  uncle,  and  of  the  fact 
that  the  property,  which  in  case  of  his  uncle's  death 
without  a  will,  devolved  on  him  as  his  nearest 
blood-relative,  was  intercepted  by  an  American, 
claiming  to  be  Edmund  Clarence'  son.  This,  Mr 
Winstead  Clarence  declared,  and  perhaps  be 
lieved  to  be,  an  incredible  story.  His  lawyer 
examined  the  papers,  and  was  of  opinion  that  the 
claim  might  be  contested,  but  as  the  ability  of 
the  English  agents  to  respond  for  so  large  an 
amount  of  property  was  doubtful,  he  advised  that 
the  suit  should  be  commenced  against  the  pretended 
heir,  and  prosecuted  in  the  American  courts.  Ac 
cordingly,  Mr.  Winstead  Clarence  wrote  to  John 
Rider,  Esq.,  to  institute  a  suit,  and  instructed  him  to 
rest  its  merits  on  the  ground  of  collusion  between 
Mr.  Carroll  and  the  doctor ;  and  to  procure  ade 
quate  testimony  at  any  cost.  As  a  sort  of  insurance 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  83 

on  the  cause,  he  promised  Rider,  in  case  of  success, 
five  thousand  pounds.  He  had  formerly  had  some 
acquaintance  with  Rider  in  the  West  Indies,  and  had 
had  occasion  to  admire  the  professional  ingenuity 
with  which  he  had  there  managed  a  very  suspicious 
business. 

Whatever  confidence  Rider  might  have  had  in 
his  own  talent,  he  was  too  well  aware  of  his  ques 
tionable  standing  at  the  bar,  to  assume  the  exclu 
sive  conduct  of  the  suit ;  he  therefore  associated 
with  himself  a  counsellor  of  the  highest  reputation 
for  integrity  as  well  as  talent;  taking  care,  of  course, 
in  his  statement  of  the  case  to  this  gentleman,  to  re 
present  Conolly  as  a  bona  fide  witness. 

The  facility  with  which  lawyers  persuade  them- 
selves  of  the  righteousness  of  a  cause  in  which  they 
have  embarked,  is  often  alleged  as  a  proof  of  the 
tendency  of  the  profession  to  obscure  a  man's 
original  perception  of  right  and  wrong.  Perhaps  s 
no  class  of  men  have  a  deeper  sense,  or  a  more  ar 
dent  love  of  justice,  but  they  are  of  all  men  best  ac 
quainted  with  the  uncertainty  of  human  testimony, 
and  most  conversant  with  the  dark  phases  of  human 
character.  In  the  case  in  question,  the  honorable 
counsellor  was  persuaded  that  Mr.  Clarence  had 
been  guilty  of  deliberate  villany.  Had  he  not  been 
so,  nothing  would  have  tempted  him  to  attack  and 
undermine,  by  the  power  of  his  eloquence,  the  cha 
racter  of  an  innocent  and  high-minded  man. 

The  cause  produced  a  considerable  sensation.  It 
not  only  involved  a  large  amount  of  property, 
but  the  reputation  of  individuals  which  had  been 
hitherto  unquestioned.  Mrs.  Clarence'  relationship 
with  some  of  the  most  distinguished  families  in  the 


84  CLARENCE;  OR 

city,  was,  at  the  dawn  of  her  prosperity,  remembered, 
and  the  cause  became  a  topic  in  fashionable  circles. 
The  trial  before  one  of  the  Judges  of  the  Supreme 
Court,  then  holding  The  Sittings,  was  announced 
in  the  morning  papers.  At  an  early  hour  the  court 
room  was  crowded  to  overflowing,  and  notwithstand 
ing  the  opinion  of  certain  of  our  English  friends, 
that  the  decorum  of  judicial  proceedings  can  only 
be  secured  by  the  necromantic  presence  of  gowns 
and  wigs,  the  most  silent  and  respectful  atten 
tion  was  given  to  the  proceedings.  Mr.  Clarence 
sustained  himself  through  the  whole  cause  with  un 
varying  dignity.  Nor  even  when  it  assumed  an  un 
expected  and  most  threatening  aspect,  did  he  mani 
fest  any  emotion.  His  manly  calmness  contrasted 
well  with  the  disinterested  enthusiasm  of  a  young 
friend,  who  never  quitted  his  side  during  the  trial. 
This  youth,  Gerald  Roscoe,  with  the  fervid  feeling 
of  fifteen,  confident  in  his  friend's  right,  and  in 
dignant  that  it  should  be  contested  or  delayed, 
expressed  his  feelings  with  theunreservedness  natural 
to  his  age  ;  sometimes  by  involuntary  exclamations, 
and  then  as  unequivocally  by  the  flashings  of  one  of 
the  darkest  and  most  brilliant  eyes  through  which 
the  soul  ever  spoke. 

Rider's  assistant  counsel  opened  the  cause  for  the 
plaintiff,  and  in  his  behalf  appealed  to  the  jury,  as 
the  natural  guardians  of  the  rights  of  a  stran 
ger,  a  foreigner,  and  an  absent  party.  He  then 
proceeded  to  state,  that  he  rested  the  cause  of 
his  client  on  two  points,  which  he  expected  to 
establish:  first,  that  in  default  of  heirs  of  the 
body,  he  was  heir  at  law  and  next  of  kin  to  the 
late  Edmund  Clarence,  Esquire,  who  had  died  in- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  85 

restate ;  and  secondly,  he  pledged  himself  to  prove 
fraud  on  the  part  of  the  defendant,  a  collusion  be 
tween  him  and  his  witnesses,  by  which  he  had  ob 
tained  possession  of,  and  still  illegally  detained  the 
property  which  by  the  verdict  of  the  jury  could  alone 
be  restored  to  the  rightful  claimant.  He  should  state 
what  he  could  support  by  adequate  testimony  if  ne 
cessary,  but  what  he  presumed  would  not  be  contro 
verted,  viz.  that  the  deceased,  Edmund  Clarence, 
after  having  resided  in  a  sister  city  for  some 
months,  and  his  condition  having  been  well  known 
there,  had  come  to  the  city  of  New  York,  where, 
for  reasons  irrelevant  to  the  present  case,  he  had  as 
sumed  the  name  of  Flavel,  concealed  his  real  conse 
quence  and  fortune  under  the  garb  of  poverty,  and 
lived  in  mean  and  obscure  lodgings.  That  during 
this  time  he  had  made  an  accidental  acquaintance 
with  the  child  of  the  defendant ;  that  their  acquaint 
ance  and  intercourse  had  been  watched  and  pro- 
mated  by  the  defendant;  that  all  this  time  Mr. 
Clarence'  health  was- manifestly  declining,  under 
the  encroachments  ojf  a  most  threatening  ma 
lady;  that  during  a  frightful  attack  of  this  con 
stitutional  malady,  he  was  removed  to  the  house  of 
the  defendant,  still  personally  an  utter  stranger  to 
him ;  that  there,  with  seeming  good  reason,  but  cer 
tainly  most  unfortunately  for  the  cause  of*his  client,  he 
was  secluded  from  the  observation  of  all  but  the  fa 
mily  of  the  defendant,  his  family  physician,  (a  most 
intimate  friend^md  a  male  nurse. 

That  Mr.  Clarence  survived  his  removal  to  the 
house  of  the  defendant  about  three  weeks ;  that  im 
mediately  after  his  decease,  the  defendant  had  for- 

VOL.  I.  8 


86  GXARENCE;  OR 

warded  to  England  documents  containing  evidence 
of  his  consanguinity  and  claim  to  the  property  ot 
the  deceased.  The  evidence  of  this  newly  dis 
covered  relationship  was  supported  by  a  written 
declaration,  assumed  to  have  been  wrested  from 
a  dying  miser  by  Mr.  Clarence,  and  by  him  given 
to  the  defendant — by  the  testimony  of  the  child  of 
the  defendant — and  by  the  dying  declaration  of  Mr. 
Clarence,  attested  by  Dr.  Eustace. 

He  then  proceeded  to  say  he  should  rest  the  cause 
of  his  client  on  the  powerful,  and  to  him  he  must 
confess  irresistible  deduction  from  circumstances, 
and  on  the  direct  testimony  of  a  single  witness.  This 
witness  was  the  nurse  to  whom  he  had  already  al 
luded.  In  the  documents  sent  to  England  no  men 
tion  had  been  made  of  this  man,  though  he  presumed 
it  would  not  be  denied  that  he  was  present  when  the 
deceased  gave  utterance  to  those  startling  declara 
tions,  which  Dr.  Eustace  had  so  fully  vouched. 
This  nurse  had  gone  from  the  defendant's  service-  to 
his  own  humble  walk  of  life,  and  had  never  received 
any  communication  from  the  defendant ;  and  had  first 
heard  of  the  present  controversy  when  summoned  by 
the  plaintiff's  counsel  to  appear  as  a  witness  on  the 
trial.  He  therefore  begged  the  gentlemen  would 
listen'  attentively  to  his  testimony,  and  would  give  it 
the  weight  it  deserved,  as  coming  from  a  man  who 
could  not  possibly  have  any  motive  for  disguising, 
or  perverting,  or  withholding  the  truth. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  astonishment  of  Mr. 
Carroll,  his  counsel,  and  his  friends,  when  Conolly 
was  named  as  a  witness  on  the  part  of  the  plaintiff; 
they  exchanged  looks  of  inquiry  and  alarm,  and  as 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  87 

Conolly  brushed  past  them  to  take  his  station 
at  the  witness'  stand,  Doctor  Eustace,  who  had 
a  grudge  against  his  whole  nation,  half  ejaculated, 

"The    d d    Irishman!"      The    words   reached 

Conolly's  ear,  and  nerved  his  half-shrinking  resolu 
tion  ;  and  once  having  girded  on  the  battle-sword, 
he  was  determined  with  true  blood  to  fight  out  the 
cause,  right  or  wrong. 

After  some  prefatory  and  unimportant  interroga 
tories,  the  counsel  for  the  plaintiff  asked  Conolly  to 
state  how  he  came  into  the  service  of  the  deceased 
Mr.  Clarence.  "  You  see,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  1 
was  just  leaving  service  next  door  to  Mr.  Carroll's, 
a  big  house  it  is,  where  they  keep  more  servants 
than  they  pay  ;  and  so  they  were  going  to  hold  back 
my  dues,  and  I  thought  to  myself  I  could  not  go 
astray  to  take  a  bit  of  advice  of  Mr.  Carroll ;  and 
said  he  to  me,  '  Conolly,  is  it  that  you're  going 
to  leave  the  place  ?'  Indeed,  sir,  and  that  am  I  not, 
said  I,  for  I've  left  it  already.  And  he  seemed  right 

glad  of  it,  and  said  he'd  a  bit  of  a  job  for  me a  sick 

man  to  nurse — arid  if  I  would  come  straight  away 
to  his  house,  he  would  spake  to  my  employer,  and 
he  was  a  very  fine  gentleman,  and  sure  ne  was  he 
would  pay  me.  l  Och  !  Mr.  Carroll,'  said  I,  <  it 
takes  more  nor  a  gentleman  to  know  a  gentleman. 
They  don't  scruple  showing  their  hands  dirty  to  us 
servants — God  forgive  me,  for  myself  calling  me  go 
here  in  America.'  " 

Conolly  was  interrupted,  and  told  to  go  straight 
to  the  point.  "  Well,  your  honor,  I  did  go  straight 
to  the  gentleman's  chamber ;  for  gentleman  I  saw  he 
was,  and  nopoorbody,withthefirstglanceofmyeye." 


88  ClARENCE;    OR 

"How  long  did  he  live  ?" 

"  Somewhere  between  three  and  four  weeks,  your 
honor;  but  that  was  nothing  to  signify,  for  Mr, 
Carroll  paid  me  the  full  month's  wages,  like  a  free 
hearted  gentleman  as  he  is,  any  way." 

"  How  was  Mr.  Clarence  treated  by  Mr.  Carroll 
and  his  family  ?" 

"  Trated,  your  honor !  As  a  good  subject  would 
trate  the  king,  or  a  good  Christian  the  Pope.  He'd 
every  thing  that  money  could  buy  for  him,  and  all 
that  hands  could  do  for  him,  and  Mr.  Carroll  and 
his  boy,  that's  Frank  Carroll,  were  by  his  bed  both 
day  and  night,  sure  were  they." 

"  Did  Mr.  Clarence,  a  short  time  previous  to  his 
death,  have  a  confidential,  that  is  to  say,  a  private 
conversation  with  Mr.  Carroll  ?" 

"  Yes,  your  honor,  that  did  he,  and  I  dont  belie 
him  in  saying  so.  It  was  just  three  days  before  he 
died,  and  the  family  had  all  been  about  him,  and 
they'd  had  a  flummery  talk  about  riches,  and  Mr. 
Carroll  spoke  as  if  he  cared  nothing  at  all  about 
them,  and  by  the  same  token  ye  may  know  he's 
neither  rich  nor  poor,  for  it's  they  that  have  got  more 
than  they  want  that  set  store  by  riches,  and  we  that's 
poor  that  are  tempted  to  sell  our  souls  for  them — 
God  forgive  us !" 

"  Spare  your  reflections,  my  good  friend,  and  tell 
us  what  happened  after  this  private  conversation  ?" 

"  Well,  your  honor,  when  the  bell  rang  distracted- 
like  we  all  ran  up  together ;  the  poor  old  gentle 
man  was  in  his  fits  again,  and  he'd  been  making  a 
clean  breast  of  it,  and  it  seemed  a  heavy  unloading 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

he'd  had it  had  like  to  have  brought  him  to  his 

death  struggle." 

"  But  he  revived,   and  was  himself  again  after 

this  f" 

"  Yes  was  he,  but  weak  and  death-like." 
41  Did  you  perceive  any  change  in  Mr.  Carroll's 
manner?" 

"  That  did  we  ;  as  the  doctor  will  remember  for 
he  said  to  me,  '  Conolly,'  said  he,  '  I  am  afraid  Mr. 
Carroll  will  go   astray  of  his  reason,  for  he's  quite 
entirely  an  altered  man,  and  so  was  he — his  eye  was 
down-cast,  and  his  cheek  flame-like,  and  I  thought 
it  was  watching  and  wearying  with  the  old  gentle 
man,  and  I  tried  to  get  him  to  take  rest,  but  not  a 
word  would  he  hear  of  it ;  he  never  left  him  for  one 
minute  day  nor  night,  and  for  the  most  tun*  he  kept 
us  all  clear  of  the  room,  till  the  morning  the  doctor 
told  the  old  gentleman  he'd  but  scant  breathing-time 
left,  and  he  asked  to  see  the  family,  and  especially 
the  boy,  that's  Frank  Carroll,  to  thank  them  for  all 
their  kindness  to  him  ;  and  they  all  come  in,  and  the 
boy  was  on  the  bed  by  him  and  kissed  the  poor  old 
gentleman  and  cried  over  him,  and  then  he  took  the 
hand  of  each  of  them  and  he  gave  his  blessing  to 
each  and  all,  and  he  says  to  me,  '  God  bless  you 
Pat,'  said  he ;  and  that  was  the  last  word  he  spoke. 
I  think,  your  honor,  he  called  me  Pat  for  shortness' 
sake,  and  knowing  it  was  all  one  to  me  ;  for  when 
I  first  came  to  his  service,  Conolly  bothered  him,  and 
I  told  him  if  it  plased  him  better,  he  might  call  me 
Pat  McCormic,  for  McCormic  was  my  father's  name 
and  Pat  my  godfather  gave  me ;  but  McCormic 
bothered  him  still  worse  than  Conolly,  and  then  I 
8* 


CXARENCE;    OK 

told  him  if  it  were  asier,  to  call  me  i  Pat  Ford,'  for 
that  was  my  grandfather's  name,  that  rared  me,  and 
the  boys  at  home  called  me  that  just,  and  it's  only 
since  I  came  to  America  that  I  took  the  name  of 
my  mother's  brother,  which  is  Conolly." 

Here  Conolly  was  interrupted,  and  told  that  the 
court  had  no  concern  whatever  with  his  cogno 
mens. 

Conolly's  excursiveness  was  doubtless  partly 
owing  to  his  natural  garrulity,  but  quite  as  mach  to 
his  desire  to  get  through  his  testimony  as  to  the  last 
scene  with  the  least  possible  quantum  of  lying.  He 
had  a  common  superstitious  feeling  about  the  supe 
rior  obligation  to  tell  the  truth  of  the  dying,  and  he 
would  have  preferred  traducing  Mr.  Clarence' 
whole  life  to  misrepresenting  his  death-bed. — 
In  reply  to  some  farther  questions  that  were  put  to 
him,  as  to  Mr.  Carroll's  deportment  after  Clarence' 
death,  he  testified  to  his  having  been  closeted  a 
long  time  with  the  doctor. 

The  plaintiff's  counsel  then  having  signified,  with 
an  air  of  complete  satisfaction  and  even  triumph, 
that  they  had  completed  their  examination,  Mr. 
Carroll's  counsel  cross-examined  the  witness,  acutely 
and  ingeniously,  but  without  eliciting  the  truth. 
There  was  a  strange  mixture  in  Conolly's  mind,  of 
malignant  resentment  towards  the  doctor,  and  good 
will  to  Mr.  Clarence  ;  of  determination  to  secure 
the  price  of  his  falsehood,  and  of  desire  not  to 
aggravate  the  injury  he  inflicted ;  a  compound  of 
good-heartedness  and  absence  of  all  principle,  and 
that  mixture  of  simplicity  and  cunning,  that  charac 
terizes  his  excitable  and  imaginative  nation. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  91 

During  his  cross-examination  he  was  questioned 
in  relation  to  his. exclamation  when  the  fact  of  Mr. 
Clarence'  relationship  to  the  Carrolls  first  flashed 
across  his  mind.  He  denied  it  entirely;  denied 
ever  having  heard  a  word  indicating  such  a  fact 
from  any  person  whatever,  till  he  was  summoned  to 
the  trial. 

Mr.  Carroll's  counsel  then  ably  stated  his 
grounds  of  defence,  which,  as  they  are  already  well 
known,  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  recapitulate. 

Doctor  Eustace,  as  witness  in  behalf  of  the  de 
fendant,  was  next  examined.  His  calm  philosophic 
countenance,  strongly  contrasted  with  the  san 
guine  complexion,  large  open  lips,  low  forehead, 
bushy  hair,  and  little,  keen,  restless  gray  eye  of  Co- 
nolly,  at  another  time  would  have  commanded  re 
spect  and  confidence. 

But  now,  watchful  and  distrustful  eyes  were  fixed 
on  him,  and  by  some  he  was  even  regarded  as  de 
posing  in  his  own  cause.  Next,  to  the  misery  of 
conscious  guilt,  to  a  delicate  mind,  is  the  suffering 
of  being  saspected  by  honorable  persons.  Doctor 
Eustace  was  embarrassed  ;  there  was  neither  sim 
plicity  nor  clearness  in  his  testimony,  and  though  he 
never  contradicted  himself,  yet  there  was  a  want  of 
directness,  and  of  self-possession,  that  darkened 
the  cloud  gathering  over  him  and  his  friend. 

Frank  Carroll  was  the  next  witness  offered  in  be 
half  of  the  defendant.  His  face  was  the  very  mir 
ror  of  truth.  Her  seal  was  stamped  on  his  clear, 
open  brow.  His  whole  aspect  was  beautiful,  artless, 
and  engaging,  and  after  a  single  glance  at  him,  the 


CXARENCE;  OR 

plaintiff's  counsel  objected  to  the  admission  of  his 
testimony.  He  contended  that  a  child  of  eleven 
years  was  too  young  to  be  disenthralled  from  his 
father's  authority — certainly  was  too  flexible  a 
material  to  resist  his  influence — that  he  would 
be  merely  the  passive  medium  of  his  dicta 
tions.  His  objections  were  strenuously  opposed 
by  the  opposite  counsel,  and  overruled  by  the 
court,  and  Frank  was  directed  to  take  his  station. 
He  was  intimidated  by  a  discussion  which  he  did 
not  perfectly  comprehend,  and  not  aware  of  the  im 
port  of  his  evidence  to  his  father,  and  occupied  only 
with  a  wish  to  shrink  from  public  notice,  he  entreated 
Mr.  Clarence,  so  loud  as  to  be  overheard,  to  excuse 
him,  and  permit  him  to  go  home.  His  father  endea 
voured  to  inspirit  him,  but  finding  his  efforts  inef 
fectual,  he  sternly  bade  him  go  to  the  assigned 
stand.  He  obeyed  with  trembling  and  hesitation. 

After  a  few  unimportant  preliminary  questions, 
to  which  he  replied  in  scarcely  audible  monosylla 
bles,  he  was  asked  to  state  all  that  he  could  recol 
lect  of  Mr.  Clarence'  death-bed  scene.  It  requires 
far  more  presence  of  mind  to  tell  a  story  than  to  an 
swer  questions.  Poor  Frank  was  abashed.  His 
manly  spirit  quailed ;  he  tried  to  gather  courage ; 
he  looked  up  and  looked  around  ;  every  eye  was 
fixed  on  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  every  man 
were  an  Argus.  His  lips  quivered,  his  crimsoned 
cheeks  deepened  to  fever  heat,  and  when  the  judge  in 
u  voice  of  solemn  authority  bade  him  proceed,  he 
burst  into  tears. 

His  father  now  interposed,  and  sternly  command- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  93 

ed  him  to  speak.  The  voice  of  his  offended  father 
was  more  terrible  than  even  the  eyes  and  ears  of 
the  staring  and  listening  crowd,  and  he  at  last  told 
his  story,  but  with  down-cast  eyes,  hesitation,  and 
blundering. 

He  was  asked  to  relate  all  he  remembered  of  Mr. 
Clarence'  visit  to  the  miser's  room,  when  he  (Frank) 
was  with  him.  He  did  so  ;  but  he  could  notfbe 
sure  of  any  particulars.  He  was  sure  Mr.  Clarence 
was  very  much  agitated  ;  but  when  cross-examined, 
he  was  not  at  all  sure  but  it  might  have  been  the  expres 
sion  of  sympathy  at  the  extreme  misery  of  the  famished, 
dying  old  man.  He  thought  he  recollected  Mr.  Cla 
rence  pronouncing  the  name  of  Savil ;  but  on  the 
cross-examination  he  was  not  sure  he  had  not 
first  heard  that  name  from  his  father.  On  the  whole 
his  testimony  appeared,  even  to  Mr.  Carroll's 
firmest  friends,  confused  and  suspicious.  A  fatality 
seemed  to  attend  his  cause.  When  it  was  opened, 
there  was  not,  on  the  part  of  the  defendant's 
friends,  a  doubt  of  its  favorable  issue  ;  but  the  most 
confident  among  them  now  began  to  fear  the  result, 
and  many  there  were  who  secretly  asked  themselves 
if  it  were  not  possible  they  had  been  deceived  in 
him.  His  counsel,  in  this  threatening  position  of 
affairs,  offered  to  bring  forward  any  number  of 
witnesses  to  the  hitherto  unimpeached  integrity  of 
his,  and  of  Doctor  Eustace'  character.  The  plain 
tiff's  counsel  said  they  would  concede  that  point  to 
the  fullest  extent  it  could  be  required. 

Nothing  then  remained  but  to  present  before 
the  court  the  miser's  manuscript.  This  was  ob 
jected  to  as  an  isolated,  unattested  document,  and. 


94 


CLARENCE;    OR 


of  course,  null  and  impotent  in  the  present  cause. 
The  judge,  however,  remarked  that  it  might  throw 
some  light  on  the  impeached  testimony  of  the  de 
fendant's  witnesses,  and  he  overruled  the  objections 
of  the  plaintiff's  counsel. 

The    document   was    accordingly    read    as    fol 
lows :    "I,  Guy    Seymour,  formerly  of  England, 
since  an   inhabitant   of  Jamaica,  and  now  of  the 
city  of  New  York,  United  States,  ~  do  declare  that 
this  writing  contains  the  truth  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  so  help  me  God.     Twenty-seven  years  ago 
this  5th  day  of  August,  A.  D.   181-,  I  was  sent 
from  the  island  of  Jamaica  by  Edmund  Clarence. 
Esq.  with  the  sum  of  $10,000,  which  by  me  was 
to  be  remitted  to  England ;  and  with  his  only  son, 
Charles  Clarence,  who  was  sent  on  the  voyage  for 
the  benefit  of  his  health.     The  devil  tempted  me  to 
abscond  with  the  money.     I  took  the  child  too  to 
guard    against    discovery.     I     left    the   vessel   in 
which  I  had  embarked    in    the  evening,  hoping  I 
should  not  be  missed   till  it  was   at  sea,   and  they 
would  believe  I  had  retained  to   shore  with    my 
charge.     1    got   on    board    an    American    vessel. 
When  I  arrived  in  New  York  I  heard  the  English 
vessel  was  lost.     Therefore  no  inquiry  was  made 
about  me.     I  put  the  child  to  a  decent  lodging. 
The  woman  imposed  on   me,  and  made  me  pay  a 
cruel  price  for  his  board,  charges  for  washing  be 
sides.     On  the  25th  day  of  the  following  January, 
being  A.  D.   1 81-,  I  took  him  to  the  city  alms- 
house.     He  was  then  five  years  old.     I  marked  his 
age  and  the  name  I  had  given  him,  Charles  Carroll 
on  a   card,    and   sewed    it   to  his    sleeve.     I  did 


A  TALI;  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  95 

uot  lose  sight  of  the  boy.  One  year  after  he  was 
taken  from  the  alms-house  by  one  Roscoe,  and  has 
since  got  well  up  in  the  world.  I  now  declare,  that 
when  I  die  he  shall  be  heir  to  all  I  possess :  eight 
thousand  dollars  in  my  strong  box,  besides  one 
half-jo,  one  Spanish  dollar,  three  English  pennies, 
and  a  silver  sixpence,  all  contained  in  my  knit 
purse,  which  my  grandmother  (a  saving  body  she 
was,  God  bless  her !)  knit  for  me  when  I  was  eight 
years  old.  When  she  gave  it  to  me,  'Johnny,  son'y,7 
said  she,  *  mind  ye  well  these  words  I  have  knit 
into  your  purse,  and  ye'll  live  to  be  a  rich  man.' 
The  words  are  there  yet,  {  a  penny  saved  is  a  penny 
gained,' — betimes  I  think  the  devil  branded  them 
on  my  soul.  I  put  my  ten  thousand  dollars  in  dif 
ferent  banks  and  insurance  companies.  They  all 
failed !  I  lost  all !  all  but  my  luck-penny,  my 
silver  sixpence.  What  I  have  now,  I've  earned, 
and  I've  saved  all  I  earned.  I  have  always 
meant  it  should  go  to  Mr.  Clarence'  son  when  I 
am  dead  and  gone,  and  I  pray  he  prove  no  spend 
thrift  of  my  hard-gotten  gains.  All  I  have  got  now 
I've  come  by  honestly.  I  never  was  guilty  of  but 
the  one  crime,  and  I  was  sore — sore  tempted.  It 
is  my  intention,  before  I  die,  to  employ  an  attor 
ney  to  draw  my  will  ;  but  it's  a  great  cost,  and  for 
fear  of  accidents,  I  have  written  this  paper,  and 
hereunto  I  put  my  name  and  seal. 

"  JOHN  SAVIL. 
"  August,  5th,  181-." 

All  the  evidence  in  the  case  was  now  before  the 
court.  The  defendant's  counsel  rose  to  sum  up. 
He  contended  that  the  evidence,  on  the  part  of  his 


CLARENCE;    OR 

client,  deemed  sufficient  in  England,  where  it  was 
necessary  to  overcome  the  universal  and  strong 
feeling  against  alienating  property,  still  remained  in 
full  force.  He  insisted  that  it  was  overthrowing 
the  basis  of  human  confidence,  to  withdraw  their 
faith  from  men  of  the  age  and  unimpeached  integrity 
of  his  client  and  his  witnesses,  and  transfer  it  to  an 
ignorant  unprincipled  foreigner,  who  had  no  name 
and  no  stake  in  society.  There  were  thousands  of 
such  men  in  the  city,  they  could  be  picked  up  any 
where,  from  the  swarms  about  the  cathedral,  to  the 
dens  of  Catharine-lane ;  men  who  for  a  few  dollars 
or  shillings,  would  swear  whatever  pleased  their  pur 
chasers.  Was  the  property  and  reputation  of  our 
best  citizens  to  be  put  in  jeopardy  by  such  testimony  f 
6  One  of  the  plaintiff's  counsel,'  (and  he  glanced 
his  eye  with  honest  scorn  at  Rider,)  <  was  a  man 
familiar  with  the  use  of  such  instruments ;  he  had 
been  long  suspected  of  practices  which  should  exile 
him  from  the  society  of  honest  men ;  which  should 
banish  him  from  this  honorable  tribunal,  and  that 
by  their  own  official  sentence.'  The  counsel 
was  interrupted,  and  reminded  that  such  vitupera 
tion  was  irrelevant  and  not  admissable. 

He  contended  that  it  was  in  order,  and  a  neces 
sary  defence  against  a  secret  and  criminal  pro 
ceeding,  which  could  only  be  exposed  by  unmasking 
the  true  character  of  the  chief  agent,  who  had  shel 
tered  himself  from  suspicion  behind  the  unspotted 
shield  of  his  able  and  upright  associate.  Testimony 
brought  forward  under  the  auspices  of  this  gentle 
man  would  receive  a  false  value.  Advantage  had 
been  taken  of  his  client's  conscious  integrity,  and 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  97 

his  just  confidence  in  the  sufficiency  of  the  testi 
mony  he  had  adduced  to  support  his  cause.  Co- 
nolly  was  absent  from  the  city  at  the  time  his  client 
prepared  the  documents  to  be  sent  to  England,  and 
deeming  his  testimony  superfluous,  he  had  taken  no 
pains  to  obtain  it.  For  the  same  reason,  and  be 
cause  he  had  not  before  adduced  it,  he  had  omitted  to 
bring  him  forward  on  the  present  occasion.  His 
client  had  been  betrayed  by  his  confidence  in  the 
truth  of  his  cause.  He  had  not  anticipated  that 
the  instrument  he  thought  worthless,  could  be  whet 
ted  to  his  destruction;  he  would  not  believe  it 
could  be  so ;  it  would  recoil  from  the  armour  oi 
honesty,  the  « panoply  divine,'  in  which  his  client 
was  encased.  There  had  been  a  dark  conspiracy 
to  defraud  and  ruin,  but  *  even-handed  justice' would 
return  the  ingredients  of  the  poisoned  chalice,  to 
the  lips  that  had  dictated,  and  had  borne  false  wit 
ness.  He  declared  that  the  evidence  for  his  client, 
which  he  luminously  and  forcibly  recapitulated, 
could  not  be  overthrown  by  a  thousand  such  wit 
nesses  as  Conolly.  He  begged  that  the  jury 
would  not  permit  their  minds  to  be  warped  by 
the  train  of  singular  circumstances  that  had  led 
his  client  to  the  discovery  of  his  parent.  He  ad 
mitted  they  had  been  correctly  stated  by  the  oppo 
sing  counsel ;  but  what  then  ?  was  not  the  remark 
as  true  as  it  was  trite,  that  the  romance  of  real  life 
exceeded  the  most  ingenious  contrivances  of  fiction  ? 
Who  should  prescribe,  who  should  limit  the  mys 
terious  modes  by  which  Providence  brought  to 
light  the  secret  iniquities  of  men  ?  He  intreated 
that  gentlemen  would  allow  due  weight  to  that  cir- 
VOL.  I.  0 


CLARENCE;    OR 

cumstance  which  ought  to  govern  their  decision — < 
the  character  of  his  client.  The  opposite  counsel, 
coerced  by  his  own  sense  of  justice,  had  paid  it 
involuntary  tribute,  when  he  conceded  all  testimony 
on  that  point  to  be  superfluous.  The  same  just 
homage  had  been  rendered  to  the  witness,  Doctor 
Eustace,  a  man  of  whom  he  might  say  what  had 
once  been  as  truly  said  of  the  political  integrity  of 
an  honorable  citizen :  '  The  king  of  England  was 
not  rich  enough  to  buy  him.'  He  then  adverted  to 
the  testimony  of  the  child,  and  asked  if  it  were  cre 
dible  that  the  father  should  be  the  corrupter  of  his 
son — the  destroyer  of  his  innocence  f 

All  these  and  other  arguments  were  urged 
at  length,  and  so  ably,  that  when  the  counsel 
finished,  the  current  seemed  to  have  set  in  Mr. 
Carroll's  favor.  Animated  whispers  of  encourage 
ment  were  heard  from  his  friends,  and  Rider, 
who  had  hitherto  been  forward  and  officious,  was 
quite  silent  and  crest-fallen,  and  slunk  away  as  far 
as  possible  from  observation. 

The  counsel  for  the  plaintiff  now  rose  to  make 
his  closing  argument.  He  began  by  expressing 
his  deep  and  unaffected  regret  that  he  must  be  the 
instrument  of  justice  in  exposing  to  dishonor  and 
scorn,  the  character  of  two  gentlemen  who  had  been 
held  in  esteem  by  the  community.  It  had  become 
his  painful  duty  to  array  circumstances  in  such  a 
light  that  it  could  no  longer  be  doubted  that  the  de 
fendant's  integrity  had  been  too  deeply  infected  with 
human  infirmity  to  resist  the  solicitations  of  temp 
tation,  temptation  double-faced,  alluring  him  with 
offers  of  fortune,  and  of  rank. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  99 

It  might  seem  strange — it  was  most  strange  that 
man  should  barter  virtue  for  money.  But  had  not 
this  base  instrument  slain  its  thousands  and  its  tens 
of  thousands  f  He  would  refer  those  who  questioned 
whether  it  were  of  all  agents  most  powerful  in  van 
quishing  human  virtue,  to  the  daily  occurrences  of 
their  commercial  city,  to  the  records  of  their  courts, 
to  their  own  observation,  to  the  page  of  history,  to 
its  darkest,  most  affecting  page — the  story  of  thirty- 
pieces  of  silver. 

He  would  not  magnify  the  crime  it  was  his  duty 
•to  unveil.  He  wished  that  all  the  indulgence  might 
be  extended  to  the  defendant  which  human  frailty 
claimed ;  for  the  sins  of  our  common  nature  should 
be  viewed  in  sorrow  rather  than  in  anger. 

He  should  endeavor  to  show  how  the  unhappy 
man  had  been  led  astray ;  how  temptation  had  at 
first  suggested  but  a  slight  departure  from  the  straight 
path ;  but  that  once  left,  how  her  victim  had  been 
darkened,  entangled,  and  lost. 

He  adverted  to  Frank  Carroll's  first  accidental 
meeting  with  the  deceased.  He  dwelt  on  his  father 
not  only  having  permitted,  but  encouraged  the 
child's  intercourse  with  the  repulsive  stranger. 

Subsequently  when  he  was  seized  with  a  frightful 
disease,  and  apparently  near  death,  the  defendant, 
instead  of  suffering  him  to  receive  relief  through  the 
appropriate  and  adequate  channels  of  public  cha 
rity — or,  even  like  a  Howard  or  a  man  of  Ross, 
maintaining  him  in  a  private  lodging  suited  to  his 
apparently  humble  condition — had  removed  him  to 
his  own  house,  placed  him,  not  in  some  attic  room, 
or  homely  apartment  suited  to  a  mendicant,  bnt  m 


100  CLARENCE;  OR 

the  best  apartment  of  his  house,  with  a  nurse,  an 
expensive  male  nurse,  especially  provided  for  him, 
and  the  luxury  of  medical  attendance  twice  and 
thrice  a  day.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  de 
fendant  was  a  man,  not  of  wasteful,  nor  even  of  free 
expenditure,  but  of  very  limited  means,  and  living 
carefully  within  his  means.  It  had  not  been  pre 
tended  that  the  defendant  had  been  led  on  by  the 
mysterious  instinct  of  nature — no,  the  circumstances 
remained  unexplained,  unadverted  to  by  the  defend 
ant's  sagacious  counsel.  Where  then  was  the  key  to 
this  extraordinary,  this  romantic  charity  ?  Was  it  not 
possible  that  the  defendant  was  previously  acquainted 
with  the  real  condition  of  his  pensionary  ?  His  per 
son  was  well  known  in  a  sister-city — his  immense 
wealth  and  peculiarities  had  been  a  topic  of  com 
mon  conversation  there.  The  supposition  that  the 
defendant  was  in  possession  of  this  knowledge,  and 
kept  it  secret,  furnisU  d  a  complete,  and  the  only 
solution  to  the  riddle.  He  saw  a  lone  old  man,  on 
the  verge  of  life,  divorced  from  his  species,  without 
apparent  heirs.  Why  should  he  not  take  innocent 
measures  to  attract  his  notice,  and  secure  his  favor  f 
It  certainly  was  not  an  unnatural  nor  extravagant 
hope,  that  the  old  man's  will,  made  under  the  im 
pression  of  recent  kindness,  should  render  an  equi 
valent  for  that  kindness.  Thus  far  the  defendant's 
fraud  was  not  of  a  deep  dye,  and  probably  would  not, 
offend  against  the  standard  of  most  men's  virtue. 


"  The  instruments  of  darkness 

Win  us  with  honest  trifles  to  betray  us 

In  deepest  consequeuce ." 


A  TALE  OP  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     101 

It  is  a  presumptuous  self-confidence  that  hopes  to  set 
limits  to  an  aberration  from  the  strict  rule  of  inte 
grity.  Had  a  voice  of  prophecy  disclosed  the 
dark  future  to  the  still  innocent  man,  would  he  not 
have  shrunk  with  horror  from  the  revelation  ?  But 
temptation,  fit  opportunity,  convenient  time,  assailed 
him,  and  he  fell ! 

He  now  begged  the  particular  attention  of  the 
jury  to  a  most  important  circumstance  in  the  testi 
mony,  the  private  interview  which  occurred  between 
the  defendant  and  the  deceased,  three  days  before 
his  death. 

The  late  Mr.  Clarence,  as  the  defendant's  coun 
sel  had  admitted,  then  disclosed  to  him  the  particu 
lars  of  his  life.  The  effort  of  recalling  past  events, 
and  living  over  far-gone  griefs,  brought  on  a  recur 
rence  of  his  disease. 

He  had  revealed,  among  other  events  of  a  cloud 
ed  life,  one  which  naturally  struck  the  imagination 
of  the  defendant. 

The  old  man,  seven  and  twenty  years  before, 
had  lost  a  child  at  sea.  The  defendant,  about  the 
same  time,  had  been  abandoned  at  the  gate  of  our 
city  alms-house ! 

He  did  not  allude  to  the  circumstance  as  a  re 
proach  to  the  defendant.  He  did  not  unnecessarily 
present  it  before  the  public  ;  but  he  would  ask  what 
feeling  was  more  natural,  more  universal,  than  a  de 
sire  of  honorable  parentage  ?  He  could  almost 
forgive  the  defendant  for  grasping  an  opportunity 
to  wash  this  stain  from  his  family  escutcheon.  His 
family  escutcheon!  alas,  it  was  a  blank!  He 
dated  his  existence  from  the  moment  when,  a  desert- 
9* 


102  CLARENCE;  OR 

ed,  shivering,  half-starved,  half-clad  child,  he  was 
received  under  the  shelter  of  public  charity ! 

Is  it  strange  that  the  project  being  once  conceived 
by  evil  inspiration,  of  ingrafting  himself  on  the  stock 
of  an  honorable  family,  his  invention  should  have  been 
quickened  to  fertility  in  producing  and  maturing  the 
means?  The  old  miser's  singular  and  solitary 
death  was  remembered.  The  documents  in  question 
might  be  forged ;  who  should  disprove  its  authen 
ticity  ?  It  might  be  pretended  that  it  was  received 
through  the  hands  of  the  deceased  Mr.  Clarence  ! 

Still  it  was  an  unattested  and  insufficient  docu 
ment;  and  other  testimony  must  be  provided — 
where  was  it  to  be  obtained  ?  Where  1 — Did  the  ene 
my  of  our  souls  ever  fail  to  present  fit  agents  to  ex 
ecute  a  plotted  mischief? 

He  would  only  remind  the  jury  of  the  pro 
tracted  and  secret  interview  between  the  defendant 
and  the  physician,  immediately  after  Mr.  Clarence' 
death. 

He  could  not  raise  the  protecting  curtain  of  secresy ; 
he  could  not  paint  the  first  shrinking  of  the  confede 
rate — he  could  not  calculate  the  amount  of  the  bribe 
— it  had  been  enough  for  the  price  of  integrity,  but 
not  enough  to  stifle  the  voice  of  conscience,  as  they 
had  all  witnessed  in  the  consequences  of  her  vio 
lated  law,  the  blundering  and  confusion  of  the 
testimony  given  by  a  man,  on  all  ordinary  occasions, 
clear-headed  and  self-possessed.  Much  had  been  said 
by  the  opposite  counsel  on  the  superior  claims  of  this 
medical  gentleman  to  their  confidence,  over  the 
humble  witness  of  his  client.  Did  he  hear  this  ar 
gument  brought  forward  in  a  country  of  boasted 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     163 

equal  rights  f  A  new  privileged  class !  a  new  aris 
tocracy  was  this!  that  was  to  monopolize  esteem 
and  confidence,  and  to  disqualify  and  disfranchise 
the  poor  and  humble.  Thank  God,  truth  and  virtue 
grow  most  sturdily  in  the  lowly  bosom  of  humility ! 
The  opposite  counsel  had  adopted  a  plausible  ex 
planation  of  what  he  no  doubt  felt  to  be  a  very  sus 
picious  circumstance — the  neglect  of  the  defendant 
to  take  the  testimony  of  Conolly.  He  would  sug 
gest  the  obvious  explanation ;  it  had  probably  already 
occurred  to  them.  The  defendant  had  not  antici 
pated  a  legal  investigation  in  this  country.  He  had 
calculated  wisely  the  amount  of  proof  necessary  for 
the  agents  in  England.  It  was  certainly  prudent  to 
have  as  few  instruments  as  possible  in  a  conspiracy 
of  this  dark  nature.  Conolly,  as  was  apparent,  was 
of  that  frank,  sociable,  communicative  disposition, 
which  characterizes  his  amiable  nation.  If  it  had 
been  possible  to  corrupt  him,  he  might,  in  some  con 
vivial  moment,  disclose  a  secret  which  neither  in 
volved  his  fortune  nor  reputation.  Fortune,  poor 
fellow  !  he  had  none ;  and  reputation,  alas  !  it  had 
been  seen  at  what  a  rate  the  reputation  of  a  poor 
Irishman  was  valued. 

He  begged  the  jury  would  not  be  misled  by  the 
relative  standing  of  the  witnesses,  but  in  their  ver 
dict  would  imitate  that  holy  tribunal,  that  was  «  no 
respecter  of  persons.' 

He  had  now  come  to  the  last  point  of  the  evi 
dence.  He  would  willingly  pass  it  over ;  he  would 
for  humanity's  sake  efface  it  from  their  memories, 
But  his  duty  to  his  client  forbade  this  exercise  of 
mercv.  He  need  not  tell  them  he  alluded  to  the 


104  CLARENCE;  OR 

testimony  of  the  child.  Surely  the  unhappy  father 
must  have  stifled  the  voice  of  nature — must  have 
(  stopp'd  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse,'  be 
fore  he  practised  on  this  innocent  boy — ^before  he 
effaced  or  blotted  the  handwriting  of  the  Creator, 
still  fresh  on  his  beautiful  work.  But  he  had  not 
effaced  it.  All  had  witnessed  the  struggles  of  Hea 
ven  and  truth  in  that  little  heart  against  falsehood, 
fear,  and  authority.  All  had  seen  him  yield  at 
last  with  tears  and  sobbings  to  the  stern  parental 
command. 

He  begged  the  jury  would  mark  by  what  appa 
rently  feeble  instruments  Heaven  had  thwarted  a 
well-contrived  plot;  and  finally,  he  resigned  the 
cause  to  them,  confident,  that  guided  by  the  light 
which  Providence  had  thrown  across  their  path, 
their  verdict  would  establish  his  client's  right. 

We  have  given  an  imperfect  abstract  of  a  power 
ful  argument,  but  inadequate  as  it  is,  it  may  show 
how  ably  men  may  reason  on  false  premises ;  how 
honestly  good  men  may  pervert  public  opinion ;  and 
how  hard  it  is  to  adjust  the  balance  of  human  judg 
ment. 

The  Judge  then  proceeded  to  charge  the  jury. 
He  told  them  that  the  question  before  them  was  one 
of  fact,  to  be  decided  by  them  alone  ;  that  they  must 
perceive  that  the  testimony  of  the  Irishman  was  ut 
terly  irreconcileable  with  the  truth  of  the  defendant's 
witnesses.  It  was  for  them  to  estimate  the  credibi 
lity  of  his  apparently  honest  testimony.  A  great 
array  of  circumstances,  favorable  to  the  plaintiff's 
claim,  had  been  presented  before  them.  It  was  for 
them  to  decide  what  weight  should  be  allowed  to 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     105 

them.  On  the  other  hand,  they  must  determine  how- 
much  consideration  should  be  accorded  to  the  hitherto 
unassailed  reputation  of  the  defendant  and  his  wit 
nesses.  Their  good  faith  established,  the  defendant's 
right  to  the  property  was  incontestible.  Thus  he 
dismissed  them  with  the  unadjusted  balance  in  their 
hands  ;  and  the  court  was  adjourned  to  the  fol 
lowing  morning, 


106 


CLARENCE;    OR 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Dead !  art  thou  dead  1  alack !  my  child  is  dead ; 
And  with  my  child,  my  joys  are  buried  !" 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 

MR.  CLARENCE  relumed  to  his  home  at  a  late 
hour  in  the  afternoon,  in  a  state  of  mind  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  be  envied  but  a  consciousness 
of  rectitude.  For  six  months  his  righteous  claim 
had  been  suspended,  and  by  the  interposition  of 
Winstead  Clarence,  that  man,  who,  of  all  the  world 
ought  not  to  have  profited  by  the  fortune  of  his  in 
jured  relative  ;  and  now,  when  Mr.  Clarence  had 
flattered  himself  that  all  uncertainty  was  about  to 
end,  his  reputation  had  become  involved  with  his 
fortune,  and  both  were  in  jeopardy.  He  had 
never  coveted  riches ;  neither  his  day  nor  his 
night  dreams  had  been  visited  with  the  sordid 
vision  of  wealth.  He  had  had  the  good  sense 
and  firmness  never  to  attempt  to  conceal,  or  for 
get,  or  cause  to  be  forgotten,  the  degraded  condi 
tion  of  his  childhood ;  and  he  now  thought  there 
was  a  species  of  injustice,  a  peculiar  hardship  in 
his  suffering  the  reproach  and  consequences  of 
these  vulgar  passions,  and  disquietudes.  It  was 
true,  that  since  he  had  known  himself  to  be  the  heir 
of  wealth,  the  exemptions  and  privileges  of  fortune 
had  obtained  a  new  value  in  his  eyes.  His  usual 
occupations  and  pleasures  had  lost  their  interest  in 
the  anticipation  of  elegant  leisure,  refined  pursuits, 


A  TALE  OF  OtlR  OWN  TIMES.  101 

the   application   of  adequate  means  to  high 
objects. 

There  was  a  feeling  too,  not  uncommon  when 
any  thing  extraordinary  and  peculiar  occurs  in  our 
own  experience  ;  a  feeling  of  the  interposition  of 
Heaven  in  our  behalf;  a  communication  with  Pro 
vidence  ;  an  intimate  revelation  of  his  will,  and 
his  concurrence  in  our  strongest  and  secret 
wishes.  Mr.  Clarence'  ruling  sentiment  was  his- 
parental  affection  ;  his  children  appeared  to  him, 
and  really  were,  highly  gifted.  His  boy  had  been 
the  instrument,  as  far  as  human  agency  was  con 
cerned,  of  the  singular  turn  in  the  tide  of  his  for 
tunes,  and  he  had  regarded  him  as  distinguished  by 
the  signal  favor  of  heaven,  and  destined  to  gratify 
his  honorable  ambition.  These  had  been  his  high 
and  happy  visions ;  but  he  had  been  harassed  by 
suspense  and  delay,  and  he  was  now  beset  with  un 
expected  dangers,  and  tormented  with  unforeseen 
anxieties. 

After  the  adjournment  of  the  court,  he  had 
passed  some  hours  with  his  lawyers  in  balancing 
the  chances  for  and  against  him,  and  had  pretty 
well  ascertained  their  opinion  of  the  desperateness 
of  his  cause.  As  he  entered  his  house  he  met  his 
little  girl,  Gertrude,  in  the  entry.  She  bounded 
towards  him, exclaiming,  "  Good  news  !  good  news! 
dear  father !" 

"  What  news  ?  what  have  you  heard,  Gertrude  f" 

"  I  have  received  the  first  prize  in  my  class," 
and  glowing  with  the  emotion  she  expected  to  ex 
cite,  she  drew  from  beneath  her  apron  a  prize-book, 
bright  in  new  morocco  and  gilding. 


108  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

"Pshaw!'*  exclaimed  her  father,  "I  thought 
you" — had  heard  some  news  from  the  jury,  he 
was  going  to  add  ;  but  he  suppressed  the  last  half 
of  the  sentence,  half-amused  and  half-vexed  at  his 
own  weakness.  He  then,  almost  unconsciously, 
kissed  the  little  girl,  and  turning  from  her,  paced 
the  room  with  an  air  of  abstraction  and  anxiety. 

"  You  don't  seem  at  all  delighted,  father,"  said 
the  disappointed  child,  "  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
the  reason  why ;  you  used  to  seem  so  pleased  when 
I  only  got  the  medal." 

Her  father  made  no  reply,  and  a  few  moments 
after  Frank  came  limping  into  the  room.  Mr. 
Clarence  turned  short  on  him,  "  A  pretty  piece  of 
blundering  work  you  made  of  it  in  court,  Mr. 
Frank,  how  came  you  to  disgrace  yourself  and  me 
in  that  manner  ?" 

"Oh,  father,  I  was  so  horribly  frightened,  and 
besides,  sir,  you  know  I  felt  sick." 

"  Sick  !   what  ailed  you  f" 

"  Father,  have  you  forgotten  that  I  run  a  nail 
into  my  foot  yesterday? — I  have  not  been  well 

ice." 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  but  I  have 
had  concerns  of  so  much  more  moment  on  my  hands. 
If  your  foot  still  pains  you,  go  and  ask  your  mo 
ther  to  poultice  it." 

"  Mother  has  gone  to  Brooklyn.  She  said  she 
should  get  a  nervous  fever,  if  she  staid  at  home 
waiting  for  the  decision  of  the  cause." 

"  Well,  go  to  Tempy ;  she  will  do  it  as  well." 

"  Tempy  has  gone  to  Greenwich,  to  speak  to  her 
brother  about  coming  to  live  with  us,  for  mother 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     109 

says  we  must  have  a  man-servant  immediately  after 
we  get  the  cause." 

"  Have  a  little  patience,  Frank,  I  am  going  to 
Doctor  Eustace's,  and  I  will  ask  him  to  step  over 
and  look  at  your  wound."  Mr.  Clarence  snatched 
up  his  hat  and  went  to  Doctor  Eustace's  ;  but  in 
his  deep  interest  in  discussing  the  occurrences  of 
the  day  with  his  friend,  he  forgot  the  apparently 
trifling  malady  of  his  boy. 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Frank,  as  his  father  shut  the 
door,  "  don't  you  wish  our  grandfather  had  not 
Jeft  father  any  money  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  don't  wish  any  such  thing.  But 
why  do  you  ask  me,  Frank  ?  I  am  sure  it  is  all 
the  same,  since  he  has  not  got  it." 

"  No  it  is  not  all  the  same,  by  a  great  deal,  Ger 
trude.  Don't  you  see  how  different  father  has  been 
ever  since  :  he  does  not  play  to  us  and  talk  to  us  as 
he  used  to ;  he  never  helps  me  with  my  lessons  ;  he 
always  seems  to  be  thinking,  and  every  body  is 
talking  to  him  about  the  cause ;  and  mother,  too, 
she  seems  more  different  than  father." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Frank  ?" 

"  Why,  she  always  used  to  be  at  home,  and  had 
something  pleasant  for  us  when  we  came  from 
school,  and  so  forth  ;  but  now  she  is  always  talking 
about  how  we  are  going  to  live,  and  what  she  is 
going  to  buy  when  we  get  the  cause." 

"  Oh,  but  Frank,  we  shall  have  such  pleasant 
times  then  ;  mother  says  so.  She  says  we  shall  be 
richer  than  cousin  Anne !  and  I  shall  have  a  piano  ; 
and  we  shall  keep  a  carriage  of  our  own  ;  and 
we  shall  have  every  thing  we  wish — and  th?t 

VOL.  I.  10 


110  CLARENCE;    OR 

will  be  like  having  Aladdin's  lamp  at  once,  yoo 
know." 

"  Oh,  dear  me !  all  I  should  wish  if  I  had  Alad 
din's  lamp,  would  be  for  somebody  to  cure  my  foot, 
Can't  you  be  my  good  Genius,  Gertrude  ?"  said  the 
poor  boy,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"  Yes,  Frank.  Just  stretch  your  leg  out  on  the 
sofa,  and  lay  your  head  in  my  lap,  and  I  will  read 
to  you  a  beautiful  Arabian  tale  out  of  my  prize- 
book.  You  will  forget  the  pain  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  sweet  oblivious  draught  administered  by  his 
sister's  soothing  voice,  operated  like  a  charm. 
Frank's  attention  was  rivetted,  and  though  he  now 
and  then  startled  Gertrude  with  a  groan,  he  would 
exclaim  in  the  next  breath,  "  Go  on — go  on  !"  She 
continued  to  read  till  he  fell  asleep.  Neither  his 
father  nor  mother  returned  till  a  late  hour  in  the 
evening. 

Early  next  morning  it  was  known  to  all  persons 
interested  in  the  cause,  that  the  jury  were  still  in  so 
lemn  conclave,  and  it  was  rumored  that  they  were 
nearly  unanimous  in  favor  of  the  plaintiff.  Those 
.who  understood  the  coercive  power  of  watching  and 
fasting  over  unanimity  of  opinion,  predicted  that  the 
verdict  would  be  forthcoming  at  the  opening  of  the 
court. 

It  is  an  admitted  fact,  that  notwithstanding  the 
precautions  that  are  taken  to  maintain  the  secresy  of 
a  jury's  deliberations ;  notwithstanding  the  officer 
who  attends  them,  and  who  is  their  sentinel,  locks 
them  in  their  apartment,  and  is  sworn  neither  to  hold 
nor  permit  communication  with  them ;  the  state  of 
their  opinions  does  marvellously  get  abroad.  What 
is  the  satisfactory  solution  of  this  mystery  to  those 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     Ill 

who  believe  that  the  nobler  sex  scorn  the  interchange 
of  curiosity  and  communication  ? 

At  the  opening  of  the  court,  the  court-room  was 
crowded  as  if  a  judicial  sentence  were  about  to  be 
passed  upon  a  capital  offender,  but  by  a  different 
and  higher  class  of  persons.  Some  were  attracted 
by  the  desire  to  see  how  Mr.  Clarence  would  receive 
the  annunciation  of  the  ruin  of  his  hopes ;  how  he  and 
his  friend  Dr.  Eustace  would  endure  the  consequent 
dishonor.  These  were  disappointed,  for  neither  of 
these  gentlemen  were  any  where  to  be  seen.  Ge 
rald  Roscoe  too  was  absent — he  who  the  day  be 
fore  had  so  boldly  scorned  every  opinion  unfavor 
able  to  Mr.  Clarence.  There  could  be  no  coup  dc 
theatre  without  the  presence  of  these  parties.  The 
general  conclusion  was,  that  they  were  too  well  ap 
prised  of  the  probable  result  to  meet  it  in  the  public 
eye. 

The  proper  officer  announced  that  the  jury  were 
ready  to  present  their  verdict.  They  were  accord 
ingly  conducted  to  their  box,  and  the  foreman  arose 
to  pronounce  their  verdict  for  the  plaintiff,  when  he 
was  interrupted  by  a  noise  and  altercation  at  the 
door,  and  Gerald  Roscoe  entered,  and  pressed  im 
patiently  forward.  He  was  followed  in  the  fone  he 
made  by  an  old  woman,  who  seemed  utterly  regard 
less  of  the  dignity  of  the  presence  she  was  in,  looked 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  and  elbowed  her  way  as 
if  she  had  been  in  a  market-house.  The  young 
man  cast  one  anxious  glance  back  to  see  she  follow 
ed,  and  then  sprang  forward  and  whispered  to  Mr. 
Clarence'  counsel.  This  gentleman  was  electrified 
by  the  communication ;  but  he  was  anxious  not  to 


112  CLARENCE;    OR 

betray  his  sensations,  and  he  rose,  and  with  great 
coolness  begged  the  suspension  of  the  verdict,  and 
the  indulgence  of  the  court  for  a  moment.  His 
young  friend,  Mr.  Gerald  Roscoe,  he  said,  had 
found  a  witness  whose  testimony  might  have  an  im 
portant  bearing  on  the  case. 

Rider  interrupted  him.  He  was  astonished  at 
such  an  application.  The  gentleman  must  be  aware 
that  it  was  utterly  inadmissible ;  he  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  all  legal  rules,  and  all  his  judicial  experi 
ence.  Had  he  taken  counsel  of  the  unfledged  youth 
who  was  certainly  a  most  extraordinary  volunteer  in 
the  defendant's  cause  ?  The  young  man's  imperti 
nent  obtrusion  of  his  sympathies  on  the  preceding 
day  had  deserved  reproof;  he  trusted  his  honor  the 
Judge  would  not  pass  by  this  gross  violation  of  the 
decorum  of  that  tribunal. 

Roscoe's  boyish,  slightly-knit  frame  seemed  to  di 
late  into  the  stature  of  manhood,  as  he  cast  an  indig 
nant  glance  at  Rider,  whose  eye  fell  before  him,  and 
then  turning  to  the  court,  he  said,  "  I  pray  the  Judge 
to  inflict  on  me  any  penalty  I  may  have  incurred 
even  in  that  man's  opinion,"  pointing  to  Rider,  "  by 
my  unrepressed  sympathy  with  integrity ;  but  I  en 
treat  that  my  fault  may  not  prejudice  Mr.  Clarence* 

cause." 

"It  shall  not,"  said  Rider's  associate  counsel, 
willing  to  humor  what  he  considered  the  impotent 
zeal  of  the  youth.  "  I  pray  your  honor  that  the 
new  witness  may  be  heard.  In  the  present  state  of 
our  cause,  we  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the  machi 
nations  of  this  young  counsellor— our  beardless  bra- 
'  ther  will  scarcely  untie  our  gordian  knot," 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  113 

The  judge  interposed.  "  This  is  somewhat  irre 
gular,  but  as  the  counsel  on  both  sides  consent,  let 
the  witness  be  sworn."  She  was  so. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  tell  us  your  name,  Mistress," 
said  Mr.  Clarence'  counsel. 

"  Olida  Quackenboss." 

"  You  keep  a  lodging-house  in  William-street, 
Mrs.  Quackenboss  ?" 

"  You  may  call  it  what  you  like  ;  it's  my  own 
house,  and  1  take  in  a  decent  body  or  two  now  and 
then,  as  sarves  my  own  convenience." 

"Did  a  man,  calling  himself  Smith,  die  at  your 
house  last  April  ?" 

"  No,  he  died  there  the  thirtieth  day  of  March  ;" 
then,  in  an  under  voice,  and  counting  on  her  fingers, 
i  Thirty  days  hath  September,'  and  so  on — "  No, 
no  but,  it  was  the  thirty-first  of  March." 

"  That  is  immaterial,  good  woman." 

"  What  for  did  you  ask  me  then  ?" 

"  Because  I  wanted  to  ask  you  further,  if  you 
knew  any  thing  of  a  certain  purse,  which  this  man, 
calling  himself  Smith,  died  possessed  of?" 

"  Yes,  do  I ;  and  the  lad  there,"  pointing,  or  ra 
ther  jerking  her  elbow,  towards  Gerald  Roscoe, 
"  laid  down  ten  dollars  to  answer  for  it,  if  any  of 
you  wronged  me  out  of  it ;  and  that  would  not  be  as 
good  as  the  purse,  for  it's  got  Smit's  luck-penny  in  it." 

"  How  came  you  by  it,  Mrs.  Quackenboss  f" 

"  Honestly,  man." 

"  No  doubt ;  but  did  Smith  give  it  to  you  ?" 

The  old  woman  grinned  a  horrible  smile.    "  Are 
you  a  born-fool,   man,  to  think  Smit,    a    sensible 
body,  would  give  away  money  like  your  thriftless 
10* 


114  CLARENCE;    OR 

spend-all  trash,  that's  flashing  up  and  down  Broad 
way  ?  Why  look  here,  man ;"  and  she  thrust  her 
arm  to  the  almost  fathomless  abyss  of  her  pocket, 
and  brought  up  an  old  sometime  snuff-box,  which 
she  opened,  took  from  it  the  purse,  undrew  the 
string,  and  piece  by  piece  dropped  into  her  hand, 
the  half  jo,  the  Spanish  dollar,  the  English  pennies, 
and  the  lucky  sixpence,  specified  in  Smith's  docu 
ment.  "  All  this  was  in  it,  good  money  as  ever  rung 
on  a  counter." 

"  Then  it  was  paid  to  you  as  due  from  Smith, 
was  it  ?" 

"  Not  that  neither  ;  Smit  paid  his  own  dues ;  all 
but  a  week's  hire  of  the  place,  that  run  up  against 
him,  poor  man,  while  he  lay  sick  and  arning  no 
thing.  But  leave  me  be ;  I'll  just  tell  you  how  it 
was.  You  see,  the  man  that  they  call  the  public 
administrator  came  to  take  Smit's  strong  box,  and 
he  said  the  money  was  all  to  go  into  the  public  chist : 
and  right  glad  was  I  it  was  to  be  locked  up,  and  not 
go  to  any  heirs,  to  be  blown  away  with  a  blast  like 
•the  leaves  that's  been  all  summer  a  growing.  And 
so  when  this  man  that  they  call  the  administrator 
came,  I  helped  him  fetch  the  box  from  the  garret, 
and  he  looked  round  poor  Smit's  room  upon  his 
clothes  that  were  hanging  about  as  if  they  were  but  so 
many  cobwebs  dangling  there,  and  he  said  to  me. 
1  You  may  keep  these  duds — they'll  serve  you  for 
dusting  cloths.'  I  asked  him,  c  Do  you  mean  I  shall 
keep  them,  and  all  that's  in  them  ?'  and  he  said 
'  Yes ;'  and  to  make  sure,  I  called  in  a  witness,  and 
he  said  '  Yes'  again.  And  then  I  shut  and  locked 
the  door  after  us  ;  for  I  knew  of  the  purse,  that 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  115 

Smit  once  showed  me  in  his  life-time,  and  I  went 
straight  back  and  got  it,  and  it  has  not  seen  .the 
light  since  till  the  lad  came  this  morning ;  and  now 
no  man,  nor  lawyer  either,  dare  to  take  from  me 
what's  honestly  mine  own.  And  now  ye  may  take 
one  look  at  it;  it's  just  as  good  as  when  his  granny 
knit  it  for  him,  with  them  words  in  it — next  to  a  gos 
pel  verse  are  they — *  a  penny  saved  is  a  penny  gain 
ed;'  and  if  ye'd  all  hare  to  it,  especially  yon  gay- 
looking  younkers,  ye'd  have  mighty  less  need  of 
your  courts,  and  your  judges,  and  your  lawyers,  and 
your  jails.  Now  you  have  my  word  and  my  coun 
sel,  ye  may  let  me  go." 

"  Stop  one  moment,  Mrs.  Quackenboss.  Who 
apprised  the  public  administrator  that  Smith  had 
left  the  money  ?" 

"  He  told  me  one  Mr.  Carroll  had  sent  him 
there." 

The  truth  of  the  miser's  document  was  now 
attested,  and  the  evidence,  of  course,  conclusive  in. 
Mr.  Clarence'  favor.  All,  who  had  watched  the 
progress  of  the  trial,  remembered  that  he  might 
have  rested  a  claim  to  the  miser's  money,  on  the 
declaration  of  his  manuscript;  and  his  delicacy  and 
disinterestedness  in  avoiding  to  do  so  swelled  the 
tide  that  was  setting  in  his  favor.  Murmurs  of 
honest  joy,  at  the  triumph  of  innocence,  ran  through 
the  court-room.  The  counsel  for  the  plaintiff 
rose ;  *  he  had  nothing,  he  said,  to  allege  in  answer 
to  the  last  witness.  He  was  himself  convinced,'  he 
magnanimously  added,  '  of  the  validity  of  the  de 
fendant's  claim  to  the  name  and  fortune  of  the  late 
Edmund  Clarence,  Esquire*' 


CLARENCE;    OR 

"  Ye're  right,  your  honor,  ye're  right,"  cried  a 
voice  that  made  breathless  every  other  in  the  court 
room,  "  and  didn't  I  tell  ye,  Lawyer  Rider,  didn't 
I  tell  ye  that  I  heard  Clarence  that's  dead  tell  him 
that's  living,  that  he  was  his  own  father's  son  ; 
didn't  I  tell  ye  so,  Lawyer  Rider? — spake  man." 

But  Rider  did  not  speak.  He  had  no  portion  of 
the  warm-heartedness  of  the  poor  misguided  Irish 
man.  He  could  not  throw  himself  on  the  wave  of 
generous  sympathy,  and  forget  it  might  engulf  him. 
Both  the  offenders  were  ordered  into  custody, 
and  both  subsequently  punished.  Rider  with  the 
heaviest,  Conolly  the  most  lenient  infliction  the  law 
permitted. 

Nothing  now  remained  but  for  the  jury  to  make 
out  their  formal  verdict.  As  soon  as  this  was  done, 
Gerald  Roscoe,  to  whose  thought  and  ingenuity 
the  happy  issue  of  the  cause  was  owing,  rushed 
from  the  court-room  to  be  the  bearer  of  the  happy- 
tidings  to  Mr.  Clarence.  He  ran  breathless  to 
Barclay-street.  His  glad  impatience  could  not 
brook  the  usual  formalities.  The  street  door  was 
open.  He  entered — he  flung  open  the  parlor-door; 
no  one  was  there.  He  heard  footsteps  in  the  room 
above  ;  he  sprang  up  stairs,  threw  wide  open  the 
door,  and  thejoyful  words  seemed  of  themselves  to 
leap  from  his  lips,  "  It's  yours — it's  yours,  Mr. 
Clarence !" 

Not  a  sound  replied — not  an  eye  was  lifted. 
Silence,  and  despair,  and  death,  were  there ;  and 
the  words  fell  as  if  they  had  been  uttered  at  the 
mouth  of  the  tomb.  Where  were  now  all  the 
hopes,  and  fears,  and  calculations,  and  projects, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     117 

that   a  few  hours  before   agitated    those    beating 
hearts  ? 

Where  was  that  restless,  biting  anxiety,  that 
awaited  the  decision  of  the  cause  as  if  it  involved 
life  and  happiness  ?  Gone — forgotten ;  or  if  it  for 
a  moment  darted  through  the  memory,  it  was  as  the 
lightning  flashes  through  the  tempest,  to  disclose 
and  make  more  vivid  all  its  desolation ! 

What  was  wealth  ?  what  all  the  honor  the  world 
could  render  to  that  father  on  whose  breast  his  only 
beloved  son  was  breathing  out  his  last  sigh  ?  What  to 
the  mother  who  was  gazing  on  the  glazed,  motionless, 
death-stricken  eye  of  her  boy  ?  What  to  the  poor 
little  girl  whose  burning  cheek  was  laid  to  the 
marble  face  Of  her  brother,  whose  arms  were  clasped 
around  him  as  if  their  grasp  would  have  detained 
the  spirit  within  the  bound  of  that  precious  body  ? 

The  flushed  cheek  of  the  messenger  faded.  His 
arms  that  a  moment  before  had  been  extended  with 
joy,  fell  unstrung  beside  him;  and  he  remained 
awe-struck  and  mute  till  the  physician  who  stood 
bending  over  the  foot  of  the  bed,  watching  the  suf 
ferer  for  whom  his  art  was  impotent,  moved  round 
to  his  side,  and  bending  over  him,  uttered  those 
soul-piercing  words,  "  he  is  gone  /" 

Gerald  Roscoe  closed  the  door,  and  with  slow 
footsteps,  and  a  beating  heart,  returned  to  the  bus , 
rling  court-room < 


118  CLARENCE;  OK 


CHAPTER   IX. 

'•'•  The  graceful  foliage  storms  may  reave, 

The  noble  stem  they  cannot  grieve."  SCOTT. 

OUR  readers  must  allow  us  to  take  a  liberty  with 
time,  the  tyrant  that  takes  such  liberties  with  us  all, 
and  passing  over  the  three  years  that  followed  the 
events  of  the  last  chapter,  introduce  them  into  the 
library  of  Gerald  Roscoe's  mother,  now  a  widow. 
The  apartment  was  in  a  dismantled  condition.  A 
centre-table  was  covered  with  files  of  papers.  The 
book-cases  were  emptied  of  their  precious  contents. 
The  walls  stained  with  marks  of  pictures  just  taken 
down.  The  centre-lamp  removed  from  its  hang 
ings,  vases  from  their  stands,  and  busts  from  their 
pedestals,  and  the  floor  encumbered  with  packages, 
labelled  with  various  names,  and  marked  *  sold.' 

Mrs.  Roscoe  was  sitting  on  a  sofa  beside  her  son, 
and  leaning  her  head  on  his  shoulcter.  Their  faces 
in  this  accidental  position,  had  the  very  beauty  and 
expression  that  a  painter  might  have  selected  to 
illustrate  the  son  and  mother — the  widowed  mother. 
The  meek  brow  on  which  the  fair  hair,  unharmed 
by  time,  was  parted,  and  just  appeared  in  plain 
rich  folds  from  beneath  the  mourning-cap ;  the 
tender,  vigilant,  mothers  eye  ;  the  complexion,  soft, 
and  fair,  and  colorless,  as  a  young  infant's  ;  and  the 
slender  form,  which,  though  it  had  lost  all  beauty 
but  grace  and  delicacy,  retained  those  eminently ; 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     119 

wereall  contrasted  as  they  should  be  with  the  firmly 
knit  frame  and  manly  stature  of  her  son ;  with  the  dark 
complexion,  flushed  with  the  glow  of  health ;  a  pro 
fusion  of  wavy  jet  black  hair ;  the  full  lustrous  eye 
of  genius ;  an  expression  of  masculine  vigor  and 
untamed  hope,  softened  by  the  play  of  the  kind 
affections  of  one  of  the  most  feeling  hearts,  and 
happiest  temperaments  in  the  world.  One  could 
not  look  at  him  without  thinking  that  he  would 
like  to  take  the  journey  of  life  with  him  ;  would 
select  him  for  a  compagnon  du  voyage,  sure  that  he 
would  resolutely  surmount  the  steeps,  smooth  the 
roughnesses,  and  double  the  pleasures  of  the  way. 
And  who  to  look  at  the  mother  would  not  have 
been  content  to  have  travelled  the  path  of  life  with 
her,  '  heaven  born  and  heaven  bound,'  as  she  was, 
unencumbered  with  the  burden  of  life,  and  unsullied 
with  any  thing  earthly?  She  bore  the  traces  of 
grief,  deep  and  recent,  but  endured  with  such  filial 
trust  that  it  had  not  disturbed  the  holy  tranquillity 
of  her  soul.  There  was  such  feminine  delicacy  in 
her  appearance,  her  voice  was  so  sweet  and  low- 
toned,  her  manners  so  gentle,  jthat  she  seemed  made 
to  be  loved,  cherished,  caressed,  and  defended  from 
the  storms  of  life.  But  she  was  overtaken  by  them, 
the  severest,  and  she  endured  them  with  a  courage 
and  fortitude,  not  derived  from  the  uncertain  springs 
of  earth  but  from  that  fountain  that  infuses  its  own 
celestial  quality  into  the  virtue  it  sustains. 

"  This  has  been  a  precious  hour  of  rest,  my  dear 
Gerald,"  said  his  mother,  "  but  we  must  not  pro 
long  it.  We  have  still  some  matters  to  arrange 
before  we  leave  the  house." 


120  CLARENCE;  OR 

"  No,  I  believe  all  is  finished.  I  have  just  given 
your  last  inventory  and  directions  to  the  auc 
tioneer." 

"  Then  nothing  remains  but  to  dismiss  Agrippa. 
I  had  determined  to  have  no  feelings,  but  I  am 
not  quite  equal  to  this  task.  You  must  do  it  for 
me,  Gerald." 

"  I  have  already  arranged  that  business.  Agrippa 
would  not  be  dismissed.  He  says  he  is  spoiled  for 
new  masters  and  mistresses ;  and  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  my  gentle  mother,  Agrippa  is  half  right,  your 
servants  are  not  fit  for  the  usage  of  common  fami 
lies. 

"I  certainly  would  retain  Agrippa,  Gerald,  if  we 
had  any  right  to  such  a  luxury  as  the  indulgence  of 
our  feelings.  But  my  annuity  will  hardly  stretch 
to  the  maintenance  of  a  servant,  and  you,  my  dear 
boy,  have  yet  to  learn  how  hard  it  is  to  earn  your 
own  subsistence." 

"  That's  true,  mother ;  but  it  will  be  only  a  little 
harder  to  earn  Agrippa's  too;  and  I  shall  work 
with  a  lighter  heart,  if  I  toil  for  something  beside 
my  own  rations.  Thank  heaven  !  in  our  plentiful 
country  there  is  many  an  extra  cover  at  nature's 
board,  and  those  who  earn  a  place  there,  have  a 
right  to  dispense  them.  Agrippa,  poor  fellow, 
would  follow  our  fortunes  even  though  *  he  died  for 
lack  of  a  dinner.'  When  I  asked  him  where  he 
meant  to  go  when  we  left  the  house,  he  drew  up 
with  the  greatest  dignity,  and  said,  *  With  the  family, 
to  be  sure.  Who  could  ever  think  of  madam  and 
Mr.  Gerald  living  without  a  servant  ?' ' 

"Well,  Gerald,  if  the  fancy  that  his  services  con- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  121 

tier  granduer  or  benefit  on  us,  makes  him  happier, 
we  will  not  destroy  the  illusion.  Your  exertions  to 
support  the  old  man  will  give  me  more  pleasure 
than  a  thousand  servants.  My  mind  has,  of  late, 
been  so  occupied  with  inventories,  that  I  have- 
thought  of  making  a  list  of  my  compensations  for 
the  loss  of  fortune.  I  should  place  first  the  power 
of  adversity  to  elicit  the  energies  of  a  young  man 
of  eighteen." 

"  Pass  over  the  mother's  compensations,  if  you 
please,  and  specify  some  other  particulars.  For 
instance,  is  adversity  the  touchstone  of  friendship  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not — that  is  the  common  notion  ; 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  misanthropic  complaints 
of  human  nature,  with  which  most  persons  embitter 
their  adversity,  result  from  accidental  connnctions 
and  ill-assorted  unions.  In  prosperity  intimacies 
are  formed,  not  so  much  from  sympathy  of  taste 
and  feeling,  as  from  similarity  of  condition.  We 
associate  with  those  who  live  in  a  certain  style, 
and  when  this  bond  is  dissolved,  why  should  not 
the  friendship  be  ?" 

"  Friendship  !  mother  ?" 

"  True,  Gerald,  it  is  an  absurd  misnomer.  We 
iancy  the  shadow  is  a  substance,  and  when  the 
light  enters  complain  that  it  vanishes.  Those  who 
are  not  intoxicated  by  fortune,  nor  duped  by  vanity, 
do  not  need  adversity  to  prove  their  friends.  I 
have  been  disappointed  in  one  instance  only,  and 
there  the  fault  is  my  own.  I  humbly  confess  I  was 
blinded  by  his  flattery.  I  ought  always  to  have 
known  there  was  nothing  in  Stephen  Morley  to  de 
serve  our  friendship." 

VOL.  I.  H 


122  CLARENCE;    OK 

"  Stephen  Morley  !  the  poor  scoundrel,  lie  doe. 
not  deserve  a  thought  from  you,  my  dear  mother.7' 

"  But  we  must  bestow  a  few  thoughts  upon  him 
just  now,  Gerald.  Run  your  eye  over  Jhat  power 
of  attorney,"  she  added,  giving  him  a  paper,  "  and 
if  you  find  it  correct,  send  it  to  Denham."  The 
paper  authorized  Denham,  Mrs.  Roscoe's  lawyer- 
to  convert  a  certain  property  into  money,  and 
therewith  to  pay  a  debt  due  to  Stephen  Morley 
from  the  late  Edward  Roscoe,  Esquire. 

"  This  is  superfluous,"  said  Gerald,  "  Morley'* 
debt  is  already  provided  for  in  the  assignment." 

"  True,  but  Morley  is  dissatisfied  and  impatient." 

"  Good  Heaven!  does  the  fellow  dare  to  say  so?" 

"  Read  his  note,  Gerald,  and  you  will  think  with 
me  that  a  release  from  even  the  shadow  of  an  obli 
gation  to  Mr.  Morley  is  worth  a  sacrifice."  Ge 
rald  read  the  following  note : 

"  My  dear  Madam — A  severe  pressure  of  pub- 
"  lie  business  (private  concerns  I  should  have  put 
"  aside)  has  prevented  my  expressing  in  person,  the 
41  deep  sympathy  I  feel  in  your  late  bereavement. 
"  The  loss  of  a  husband,  and  such  a  husband  is 
**  indeed  a  calamity  ;  but  we  must  all  bow  to  the 
<(  dispensations  of  an  all-wise  Providence. 

"  It  is  painful  to  intrude  on  you,  my  dear  madam, 
41  at  such  a  moment  a  business  concern,  and  no- 
"  thing  but  an  imperative  sense  of  duty  to  my  fa- 
•'  mily,  would  compel  me  to  do  it.  I  understand 
•(  you  have  assumed  the  settlement  of  my  late  friend's 
"  affairs — a  task,  suffer  me  to  say,  my  dearest  madam, 
**  en  parenthese,  ill-suited  to  one  of  your  delicate 
t;  sensibilities. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.      123 

44 1  hesitate  to  allude  to  my  late  friend's  debt  to 
«  me — a  debt,  I  am  bound  in  justice  to  myself  to 
•<  say,  contracted  under  peculiar  circumstances ;  still 
"  I  should  not  refer  to  them  as  a  reason  for  an 
"  earlier  settlement  of  my  claim  than  is  provided 
"  for  by  your  assignments,  (which  Denham  has  ex- 
"  hibited  to  me,)  was  I  not  constrained  by  that  stern 
"necessity  that  knows  no  law,  to  intreat  you  to 
"  make  arrangements  for  an  immediate  payment. 

"  Believe  me,  my  dear  madam,  with  the  sincerest 
-'  condolence  and  respect, 

"  Your  very  humble,  and 
"  devoted  Servant 
"  STEPHEN  MORLEY.'' 

Gerald  threw  down  the  note  ;  "the  sycophantic, 
selfish  rascal !"  he  exclaimed,  "yes,  pay  him,  my  dear 
mother — if  it  were  the  pound  of  flesh,  I  would  pay 
him — 'peculiar  circumstances,'  pecuiar  enough, 
Heaven  knows !  The  only  requital  he  ever  made  for 
loans  from  my  father  that  saved  him,  time  after  time, 
from  a  jail — *  peculiar,'  peculiar  indeed,  that  after 
our  house  has  been  a  home  to  him  he  should  be  the 
only  one  of  all  the  creditors  dissatisfied.  Pay  him  ! 
Yes,  mother,  pay  him  instantly." 

A  servant  opened  the  door  "  Mr.  Morley,  madam  I 
He  asks  if  he  can  see  you  alone." 

"  Show  Mr.  Morley  up — leave  me,  Gerald." 
Gerald  paused  at  the  door :  "  Let  me  see  him. 
mother,"  he  said  earnestly ;  "  he  does  not  deserve'7 
— his  sentence  was  broken  off  by  Morley's  entrance. 
Gerald  looked  as  if  he  longed  to  give  him  the  inti 
mation  the  Frenchman  received  who  said  of  the 


CLARENCE;    OR     * 

gentleman  who  kicked  him  down  stairs,  *  he  intimated 
he  did  not  like  his  company.'  Morley  seized  his  hand, 
gave  it  a  pressure,  and  said  in  a  voice  accurately  de 
pressed  to  the  key  of  condolence,  "  My  dear  Ge 
rald!"  and  then  elongating  his  visage  to  its  utmost 
stretch  of  wofulness  he  advanced  towards  Mrs.  Ros- 
coe.  She  baffled  all  his  preparations  by  meeting  him 
with  a  composure  that  made  him  feel  his  total  insig 
nificance  in  her  eyes.  The  bidden  tear  that  welled 
to  his  eye  was  congealed  there,  and  the  thrice  conned 
speech  died  away  on  his  lips.  "  You  have  business 
with  me,  Mr.  Morley,"  she  said  in  a  manner  that 
excluded  every  other  ground  of  intercourse. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  madam,  I  have  a  small  matter  of 
business ;  but  it  is  particularly  painful  to  intrude  it 
at  this  moment.  I  am  really  quite  overwhelmed 
with  seeing  preparations  for  an  auction  in  this  house. 
God  bless  me,  my  dear  Julia,  was  it  not  possible  to 
avoid  this  consummation  of  your  misfortunes  ?  And 
now,  when  the  details  of  business  must  be  so  ex 
tremely  trying  to  yod  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Morley,  they  are  of  ser 
vice  to  me." 

"  Ah !  I  fear  you  are  overtaxing  yourself — an  un 
natural  excitement,  depend  on  it.  I  fear  too — suf 
fer  me  to  be  frank — my  deep  interest  in  you  must  be 
my  apology — I  fear  you  have  been  ill-advised.  In 
your  peculiar  circumstances,  nothing  would  have 
been  easier  than  a  favorable  compromise  with  the 
majority  of  your  creditors — certain  debts,  of  course, 
to  be  excepted." 

"  Fortunately,  Mr.  Morley,  there  was  no  neces- 


1  A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     125 

ity  for  exceptions  ;  I  have  the  means  to  pay  them 
all." 

"  Undoubtedly,  madam  ;  but  by  the  surrender  of 
your  private  fortune — to  that  my  friend's  creditor? 
had  no  claim ;  of  course  I  except  those  debts  in 
which  my  friend's  honor  was  involved." 

"  You  must  pardon  me,  Mr.  Morley  ;  as  a  wo 
man,  I  am  ignorant  of  the  nice  distinctions  of  men 
of  business.  Gerald  has  not  yet  learned  an  artifi 
cial  code  of  morals  ;  and  we  both  thought  all  honest 
debts  honorable." 

"  Undoubtedly,  madam,  in  one  sense  ;  you  have 
high  notions  on  these  subjects ;  the  misfortune  is, 
they  do  not  accord  with  the  actual  state  of  things ; 
such  sacrifices  are  not  required  by  the  sense  of  the 
public." 

"  Perhaps  not,  Mr.  Morley,  but  we  were  govern 
ed  by  our  own  moral  sense." 

"  Fanciful,  my  dear  madam ;  and  suffer  me  to  say 
that  whatever  right  you  may  have  to  indulge  your 
romantic  self-sacrifice,  you  seem  to  me  to  have 
overlooked  your  duty  to  Gerald." 

"  A  mother,"  replied  Mrs.  Roscoe,  with  a  faint 
.smile,  "is  not  in  much  danger  of  overlooking  such 
duties  to  an  only  son.  Had  our  misfortunes  occur 
red  at  an  earlier  period  of  Gerald's  life,  the  surren 
der  of  my  fortune  would  have  been  more  difficult. 
But  Gerald  has  already  had,  and  availed  himself 
worthily,  of  every  advantage  of  education  that  our 
country  affords.  His  talents,  zeal,  and  industry — 1 
speak  somewhat  proudly,  Mr.  Morley — are  his  pre 
sent  means,  and  adequate  to  his  wants.  His  agency 
11* 


126 


CLARENCE;  OK 


for  Mr.  Clarence,  and  another  honorable  employment 
he  has  been  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain,  will  furnish 
him  a  respectable  support  without  encroaching  on 
his  professional  studies." 

"  Very  fortunate,  very  respectable,  undoubtedly, 
my  dear  madam ;  but  then  my  friend  Gerald  is  so 
very  promising — such  an  uncommonly  elegant  young 
man — he  would  have  come  into  life  under  such  ad 
vantages.  Why,  there  are  the  Vincents,  Mrs.  Ros- 
coe.  Who  are  more  sought  and  visited  than  the 
Vincents  ?  Mrs.  V.  was  left  in  circumstances  precisely 
analogous  to  yours.  She  had,  I  may  say,  if  not  an 
able,  a  fortunate  adviser  at  least.  We  called  the 
creditors  together,  and  exhibited  rather  a  despe 
rate  state  of  affairs.  She  was,  you  know,  at  that 
time  a  remarkably  pretty  woman,  and  looked  un 
commonly  interesting  in  her  widow's  weeds ;  her 
children  were  assembled  around  her  in  their  deep 
mourning — it  was  quite  a  scene.  I  assure  you  the 
creditors  were  touched  ;  they  signed  a  most  favora 
ble  compromise — compounded  for  ten  per  cent.  I 
think.  Mrs.  Vincent  lived  in  great  retirement 
while  her  daughters  were  being  educated — spared 
no  expense — and  now  they  have  come  out  in  the 
very  first  style,  I  assure  you.  Nobody  has  a 
more  extensively  fashionable  acquaintance — nobody 
entertains  in  better  style,  than  my  friend  Mrs.  Vin 
cent.'1 

"  I  believe  I  must  remind  you  that  you  have  bu* 
siness  with  me,  Mr.  Morley." 

Morley  bit  his  nails ;  but  after  a  moment  he  reco^ 
vered  his  self-possession,  and  reverted  from  the  na- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  127 

tural  tone  into  which  he  had  fallen,  to  that  of  senti 
mental  sympathy.  "  Yes.  my  dear  madam,  I  have 
business ;  but  really  my  own  concerns  were  quite 
put  out  of  my  head,  by  seeing  this  house,  in  which  1 
have  passed  so  many  pleasant  hours,  in  preparation  for 
an  auction  !  I  hardly  know  how  to  proceed ;  I  could 
not  fully  explain  myself  in  my  note.  It  is  too  deli 
cate  an  affair  to  commit  to  paper — I  was  particularly 
solicitous  not  to  excite  your  feelings."  Mrs.  Roscoe 
listened  with  that  quiet  attention,  that  said,  as  plainly 
as  words  could  speak  it,  You  cannot  excite  my  feel 
ings,  Mr.  Morley.  She  was  however  mistaken. 
Morley  proceeded :  "  I  perceive,  by  the  exhibit  of 
your  affairs,  that  you  have  placed  me  on  the  same 
footing  with  the  other  creditors  of  my  late  friend ; 
I  know  it  is  your  intention  they  shall  all  be  fully 
paid,  principal  and  interest — but  permit  me  to  say 
this  is  a  fallacious  hope — a  case  that  rarely  occurs ; 
there  are  invariably  great  losses  in  the  settlement  of 
estates — if  the  creditors  get  fifty  percent.,  they  esteem 
themselves  fortunate.  I  am  compelled  to  say,  though 
reluctantly,  that  there  is  something  a  little  peculiar 
in  this  debt  to  me,  which  renders  its  immediate  and 
entire  payment  very  important— important,  4  mean, 
to  the  memory  of  my  late  friend." 

"  Will  you  have  the  goodness,  Mr.  Morley,  to 
explain  to  me  the  peculiar  circumstances  attending 
this  debt?" 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear  madam ;  it  would  be  too 
painful  a  task  ;  take  my  assurance  that  my  friend's 
honor  is  implicated.  I  beg,"  he  added,  lowering 
his  voice,  "  that  you  will  not  communicate  to  Ge 
rald  what  I  am  going  to  say.  He  is  hot-headed,  and 


128  CLARENCE;  OR 

might  be  rash.  An  exposure  of  the  circumstances 
attending  the  loan  would  be  most  unfortunate;  I 
could  not  avert  the  consequences  to  my  friend's  re 
putation.  The  dishonor,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it, 
would  be  great,  and  the  disadvantage  to  your 
son,  inestimable.  It  is  therefore  on  his  account, 
far  more  than  my  own,  that  I  urge  immediate  pay 
ment." 

"  Let  me  understand  you  distinctly,  Mr.  Morley ,: 
do  you  mean  that  there  were  circumstances  attending 
the  borrowing  of  that  money  dishonorable  to  my 
husband  ?" 

"  I  grieve  to  say  there  were,  madam." 
'<-And  those  circumstances  must  transpire  if  the? 
money  is  not  immediately  refunded  ?" 
"  This  is  the  unhappy  state  of  the  case." 
"  Will  you  run  your  eye  over  that  power  of  at 
torney,  Mr.  Morley  f"     Morley  did  so,  and  felt  a 
mingled  sensation  of  joy,  at  finding  himself  so  se 
cure  of  immediate  possession  of  the  total  amount  of 
his  debt,  and  of  vexation  that  he  had  taken  so  much 
superfluous  trouble ;  however,  the  pleasure  prepon 
derated  and  sparkled  in  his  eyes,  as  he  said,  "  This 
is  perfectly  satisfactory,  my  dear  madam,  entirely 
so;  it  wants  nothing  but  your  signature." 

"  And  my  signature,  sir,  it  never  will  receive." 
Morley's  face  fell.  He  looked  as  if  he  felt  much  as 
a  fox  might  be  supposed  to  feel,  who  sees  the  trap 
door  fall  upon  him,  just  as  he  is  in  the  act  of  grasp 
ing  his  prey.  «  Mr.  Morley,"  continued  Mrs.  Ros- 
coe,  "that  instrument  will  convince  you  how  soli- 
ritous  I  was  to  escape  from  a  pecuniary  obligation 
to  you — galling  as  it  is,  I  will  continue  to  endure  it. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


129 


to  show  you  that  neither  your  broad  assertions,  nor 
malignant  insinuations,  can  excite  one  fear  for  the 
honor  of  my  husband's  memory.  I  shall  not  com 
municate  what  you  have  said  to  my  son,  for  he 
might  not  be  able  to  restrain  his  indignation  against 
a  man  who  has  slandered  his  father,  to  his  mother's 
ear.  Our  business  is  now,  sir,  at  an  end."  Mrs. 
Roscoe  rang  the  bell.  Morley  fumbled  with  his 
hat  and  uttered  some  broken  sentences,  half  remon 
strating,  and  half  apologizing.  The  servant  ap 
peared.  "  Agrippa,  open  the  street-door  for  Mr. 
Morley."  Mr.  Morley  was  compelled  to  follow 
Agrippa,  with  the  mortifying  consciousness  of 
having  been  penetrated,  baffled,  and  put  down,  by  a 
woman. 

It  may  appear  incomprehensible  to  our  readers, 
that  Stephen  Morley  should  ever  have  been  honored 
with  the  friendship  of  the  Roscoes,  but  they  must 
remember  we  have  shown  him  without  his  mask. 
— "  The  art  of  pleasing,"  says  Chesterfield,  "  is 
the  art  of  rising  in  the  world,"  and  one  of  the 
grossest  but  surest  arts  of  pleasing  is  the  art  of 
flattery.  Morley  flattered  women  for  their  love; 
men  for  their  favor,  and  the  people  for  their  suffrages. 
From  the  first  he  received  all  grace,  from  the  second, 
consideration,  and  from  the  last,  office  and  political 
distinction.  When  the  Roscoes  were  affluent  and 
distinguished,  Morley  was  as  obsequious  to  them  as 
an  oriental  slave  to  his  master.  But  when  a  sudden 
turn  in  the  tide  of  fortune  changed  the  aspect  of 
their  affairs,  and  cloud  after  cloud  gathered  over 
them,  Mr.  Stephen  Morley,  who  resembled  the  fe~ 


130 


OR 


line  race  in  their  antipathy  to  storms,  as  well  as  in 
some  other  respects,  shook  the  damps  from  his  coat, 
and  slunk  away  from  the  side  of  his  friends. 

The  Roscoes,  occupied  with  deep  sorrows  and 
difficult  duties,  had  almost  forgotten  him,  when  he- 
consummated  his  meanness  by  the  conduct  we  have 
related, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     131 


CHAPTER  X. 


•  By  my  trotl)3  we  that  have  good  wits  have  much  to  answer  for," 

As  YOU  LIKE  IT« 


THE  following  letter  was  addressed  by  Mrs.  Lay- 
ton,  whom  we  take  the  liberty  thus  unceremoniously 
to  present  to  our  readers,  to  Gerald  Roscoe,  Esq. 

"  Upton* s-pur chase,  June.  18 — . 

"  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  if  you  love  the  coup- 
k<  try,  (to  borrow  your  legal  phrase,)  per  se  ?  Here 
•'lam  surrounded  by  magnificent  scenery,  in  the 
"  midst  of '  bowery  summer,'  in  the  month  of  flowers, 
**  and  singing-birds,  the  leafy  month  of  June,  and 
'•yet  I  am  sighing  for  New  York.  It  is  Madame 
*'  de  Stael,  I  think,  who  says  that  Move  and  religion 
•'only  can  enable  us  to  enjoy  nature.'  The  first, 
••alas!  alas!  is  (for  is  read  ought  to  be,)  passe  to 
•;  me ;  and  the  last  I  have  exclusively  associated  with 
"  the  sick-chamber  and  other  forms  of  gloom  and 
•'  misery. 

"  I  honestly  confess,  I  do  love  the  town  ;  I  prefer 
"  a  walk  on  a  clean  flagging  to  daggling  my 
vi  flounces  and  wetting  my  feet  in  these  green  fields. 
•;I  had  rather  be  waked  in  the  morning,  (if  waked 
u  I  must  be)  by  the  chimney-sweeps'  cry,  than  by 
•'  the  chattering  of  martins.  I  prefer  the  expressive 
•(  hum  of  my  own  species  to  the  hum  of  insects,  and 
;*  T  had  rather  see  a  few  japonicas,  geraniums,  ana 


132  CLARENCE;    OH 

"jasmines,  peeping  from  a  parlor-window,  than  aii 
"  these  acres  of  wheat,  corn,  and  potatoes. 

"  Oh,  for  the  luxury  of  my  own  sofa,  with  the 
"  morning-paper  or  the  '  last  new  novel'  from  Good- 
il  rich  :  with  the  blinds  closed,  and  the  sweet  security 
"of  a  'not  at  home'  order  to  faithful  servants. 
"  Country  people  have  such  a  passion  for  prospects, 
"as  if  there  were  no  picture  in  life  but  a  pay  sage ; 
"  and  for  light  too,  they  are  all  Persians — >worship- 
"pers  of  the  sun.  My  friends  here  do  not  even 
"  know  the  elements  of  the  arts  of  life.  They  have 
"  not  yet  learned  that  nothing  but  infancy  or  such 
"a  complexion  as  Emilie's  can  endure  the  revela- 
"  tions  of  broad  sunshine.  It  would  be  difficult,  my 
"  dear  Roscoe,  to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  varieties 
"  of  misery  to  which  I  am  exposed.  My  friends 
"  pride  themselves  on  their  hospitality — on  their  de- 
"  votion  to  their  guests.  They  know  nothing  of 
"  the  art  of  'letting  alone.'  I  must  ride,  or  walk, 
"  or  sail.  We  must  have  this  friend  to  dine,  or 
"that  '  charming  girl  to  pass  the  day'  My  old 
"  school-mate,  Harriet  Upton,  whom  in  an  evil  hour 
"I  came  thus  far  to  see,  was  in  her  girlhood  quite 
"  an  inoffensive  little  negative.  She  is  now  a  posi 
tive  wife — a  positive  house-wife — a  positive  mo- 
"ther — and  Mrs.  Balwhidder,  the  busiest  of  bees., 
"  nay,  all  the  bees  of  Mount  Hymettus  are  not  half 
"  so  busy  as  Harriet  Upton.  She  has  the  best  din- 
•'  ners,  pies,  cake,  sweetmeats,  in  the  country — her 
"  house  is  in  the  most  exact  order,  and  no  servants — 
"  or  next  to  none — a  house  full  of  children  too,  and 
"  no  nursery !  She  is  an  incessant  talker,  and  no 
"  topic  but  husband  and  children  and  house-affairs-. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.      133 

«  She  is  an  economist  too,  and  like  most  female  sages 
"  in  that  line,  that  I  have  had  the  misfortune  to  en* 
"  counter,  she  loses  all  recollection  of  the  end  in  her 
"  eternal  bustle  about  the  means.  Every  thing 
"  she  wears  is  a  bargain.  All  her  furniture  has 
"  been  bought  at  auctions*  She  tells  me  with  infi- 
"  nite  naivete  (me  of  all  subjects  for  such  a  boast) 
*'  that  she  always  makes  her  visits  to  town  in  the 
a  spring,  when  families  are  breaking  up,  and  mer- 
"  chants  are  breaking  down— when  to  every  tenth 
*<  house  is  appended  that  prettiest  of  ensigns,  in 
"  her  eyes,  a  red  flag,  and  half  the  shop-windows 
-£  are  eloquent  with  that  talismanic  sentence,  '  selling 
"  off  at  cost,'  Oh  Roscoe  !  would  that  you  could 
*'  see  her  look,  half  incredulous  and  half  contemptu- 
"  ous,  when  I  tell  her  that  my  maid,  Justine,  does 
"  all  my  shopping,  and  confess  my  ignorance  of  the 
;<  price  of  every  article  of  my  dress. 

"  But  even  Dame  Upton,  a  mass  of  insipidities  as 
"  she  is,  is  as  much  more  tolerable  than  her  hus- 
"  band,  as  a  busy,  scratching,  fluttering,  clucking 
"  motherly  hen,  than  a  solemn  turkey-cock.  He} 
"  I  fancy,  from  the  pomp  and  circumstance  with 
"  which  he  enounces  his  common-places  is  Sir  Ora- 
"  cle  among  his  neighbors.  He  is  a  man  of  great 
"  affairs,  president  of  an  agricultural  society,  colo- 
"  nel  of  a  regiment,  justice  of  the  peace,  director  of 
"  a  bank — in  short,  he  fills  all  departments,  milita- 
"  ry,  civil,  and  financial,  and  may  be  best  sum- 
"  med  up  in  our  friend  D.'s  pithy  sentence — l  he  is 
"  all-sufficient,  self-sufficient,  and  insufficient.' 

"  I  am  vexed  at  myself  for  having  been  the  dupe 
*'  of  a  school-day  friendship*     You,  Roscoe,  are 
VOL.  I.  12 


134 


CLARENCE;    OH 


if  partly  in  fault  for  having  kept  alive  my  youthful 
"  sentimentalities.  What  a  different  story  would 
"  Emilie  tell  you,  were  she  to  write !  Every  thing 
"  is  couleur  de  rose  to  her ;  but  that  is  the  hue  of  se- 
•*  venteen — and  besides,  from  having  been  brought 
"  up  in  a  tame  way  with  her  aunt,  common  plea- 
*'  sures  are  novelties  to  her.  From  the  moment  we 
"  left  New  York,  she  had  a  succession  of  ecstacies. 
'  The  palisades  were  *  grand ;'  the  highlands 
"  *  Alps ;'  and  the  Caatskills  <  Chimborazo,'  and 
;t  *  Himlaya.'  She  could  have  lived  and  died  at 
"  West  Point,  and  found  a  paradise  at  any  of  those 
•'  pretty  places  on  the  Hudson.  Albany,  that  little 
"  Dutch  furnace,  was  classic  ground  to  her,  and  she 
"  dragged  me  round  at  day-light  to  search  among 
"  the  stately  modem  buildings  for  the  old  Dutch 
"  rookeries  that  the  alchymy  of  Irving' s  pen  has,  iu 
"  her  imagination,  transmuted  to  antique  gems. 
"  Even  in  traversing  the  pine  and  sandy  wilderness 
"  from  Albany  to  Schenectady,  she  exclaimed,  '  how 
"  beautiful!'  and  when  I,  half  vexed,  asked  <  what 
"  is  beautiful  ?'  she  pointed  to  the  few  spireas  and 
11  sweetbriars  by  the  road-side.  Alas  for  her  poor 
"  mother !  the  kaleidescope  of  her  imagination  was 
"  br6ken  long  ago,  and  trifles  will  never  again 
"  assume  beautiful  forms  and  hues  to  her  vision. 
"  There  are  pleasures,  however,  for  which  I  have 
"  still  an  exquisite  relish — a  letter  from  you,  m\ 
"  dear  Gerald,  would  be  a  {  diamond  fountain'  in 
"  this  desert. 

"  By  the  way,  what  do  you  know  of  the  Cla- 
:t  rences  of  Clarenceville  ?  They  called  on  us  a 
:(  few  days  since ;  the  father,  daughter,  and  a  young 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     135 

-  man  by  the  name  of  Seton,  an  artist,  who  resides 
"  in  the  family  and  teaches  the  young  lady  paint- 
"  ing.    She,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  poor  fellow's 
"  blue  eye  and  sunken  cheek,  has  already  drawn 
"  lines  on  his  heart,  that  it  will  take  a  more  cunning 
"  art  than  his  to  efface.  He  seems  to  regard  her  as  a 
"  poet  does  his  muse,  or  a  hero  his  inspiring  genius, 
"  as  something  to  be  worshipped  and  obeyed,  but 
"  not  approached.  She  appears  a  comely  little  body. 
"  amiable,  and  rather  clever — at  least  she  looked 
"  so  :  she  scarcely  spoke  while  she  was  here ;  once 
"  I  fancied  she  blushed — and  at  what,  do  you  think? 
"  Your  name,  Gerald.    The  father  was  very  curious 
"  about  you.     He  is  a  '  melancholy  Jacques'  of  a 
"  man,  but  he  is  a  dyspeptic,  which  accounts  for  all 
"  moral  maladies.     They  are  evidently  the  lions  of 
"  this  part  of  the  world.     Harriet  Upton  has  a  con- 
ic  stitutional  deference  for  whatever  is  distingue  in 
"  any  way ;  and  she  was  in  evident  trepidation  lest 
"  Mr.  Clarence,  who,  she  took  care  to  tell  me,  was 
;f  'very  particular,'  should  not  accord  his  suffrage 
;<  to  her  friend.     I  was  piqued,  and  determined  to 
"  show  her  there  was  more  in  woman's  power  than 
"  was  dreamt  of  in  her  philosophy.     I  succeeded  so 
"  well  that  she  kindly  assured  me  she  had  never 
"  seen  Mr.  Clarence  'take  so  to  a  stranger,'  and 
"  <  husband  said  so  too.'    '  Husband  says,'  in  Harriet 
i{  Upton's  mouth,  is  equivalent  to  «  scripture  says' 
;{  from  an  orthodox  divine. 

"  Mr.  Clarence  betrayed  some  surprise  at  my 
"  particular  knowledge  of  you,  and  your  affairs ;  for 
"  to  confess  the  truth,  I  was  a  little  ostentatious  of 
"  the  flattering  fact  of  our  intimacy.  I  cannot  ac- 


136  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

;f  count  for  his  curiosity  about  you,  but  on  the — fe- 
il  minine  supposition,  you  will  call  it — that  he  has 
"  designs,  or  rather  hopes,  in  relation  to  you ;  and 
"  on  some  accounts  the  thing  would  do  remarkably 
"  well.  But  then  there  is  your  genuine  antipathy 
"  to  rich  alliances  to  be  overcome  ;  and,  Gerald,  you 
"  are  such  a  devotee  to  beauty,  that  this  young  lady 
"  would  shock  your  beau-ideal ;  and  besides,  to  a 
'i young  man  who  is  a  romantic  visionary  in  affairs 
•'  of  the  heart,  there  is  something  chilling  and  re- 
-l  volting  in  the  sort  of  exemplary,  mathematical  cha- 
"  racier  that  I  take  Miss  Clarence  to  be  ;  and  finally 
lt  — and  thank  Heaven  for  it — you  are  not  a  marry- 
;<  ing  man,  Gerald. 

"  I  wonder  that  any  man — that  is,  any  man  of 
"  society — should  trammel  himself  with  matrimony, 
;;  till  it  becomes  a  refuge  from  old-bachelorhood. 
"  An  old  bachelor  is  certainly  the  poorest  creature 
"  in  existence.  An  old  maid  has  a  conventual  asy- 
"  lum  in  the  obscurity  of  domestic  life  ;  and  besides, 
"  it  is  possible  that  her  singleness  is  involuntary,  and 
"  then  you  feel  more  of  pity  than  contempt  for  her ; 
•'  but  an  old  bachelor,  whether  he  be  a  fidgety,  cy- 
"  nical  churl,  or  a  good-natured  tool  who  runs  of 
"  errands  for  the  mamas,  dances  with  the  youngest 
"  girls  in  company,  (a  sure  sign  of  dotage,)  and 
41  feeds  the  children  with  sugar-plums  ;  an  old  ba- 
i;  chelor  is  a  link  dropped  from  the  universal  chain, 
"  not  missed,  and  soon  forgotten. 

"  But  to  the  Clarences  once  more.  Miss  Clarence 
;<  and  Emilie  have  taken  a  mutual  liking,  and  Emilic 
:<  has  accepted  an  invitation,  received  to-day,  and  ex- 
<  pressed  in  the  kindest  manner,  to  pass  a  week  at  Cla- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     137 

V  renceville.  The  invitation  to  the  Uptons  and  me  is 
i:  limited  to  a  dinner.  If  Miss  Clarence  were  a  wo- 
;f  man  of  the  world,  she  would  not  care  to  bring  her- 
i{  self  into  such  close  comparison  with  such  exqui- 
"  site  beauty  as  Emilie's.  Is  it  not  strange  that 
"  Emilie,  Hebe  as  she  is,  should  have  so  little  influ- 
;£  ence  over  the  imagination.  She  is  a  great  deal 
"  more  like  Lay  ton  than  like  her  poor  mother.  By 
i;  the  way,  will  you  tell  Layton  he  must  remit  us 
"  some  money,  and  also  that  I  shall  conform  to  his 
•(  wishes  in  respect  to  going  to  Trenton,  and  shall  of 
*{  course  expect  the  necessary  funds.  Be  kind  enough 
"  to  say  I  should  have  written  to  him  if  I  had  had 
"  time. 

"  Oh,  that  my  friend  would  write — not  a  book — 
;<  heaven  forefend !  but  a  letter.  Do  gratify  my 
"  curiosity  about  the  Clarences.  I  mean  in  rela- 
-'  tion  to  any  particular  interest  they  may  have  in 
-  you.  I  know  generally  the  history  of  Mr.  C.'s 
*'  discovery  of  his  father,  and  his  law-suit. 

"  Adieu,  dear  Gerald.     Believe  me  with  as  much 
"'  sentiment  as  a  wife  and  matron  may  indulge, 
"  Yours, 
"  GRACE  LAYTON." 

Gerald  Roscoe  to  Mrs.  Laytou. 

"New  York,  June,  18 — . 

"  My  dear  Madam — It  is  I  believe  canonical  to 
•"  answer  first  the  conclusion  of  a  lady's  letter.  My 
;<  reply  to  your  queries  about  the  Clarences  will  ac- 
*'  count  for  Mr.  C.'s  interest  in  me,  without  involv- 
"  ing  any  reason  so  flattering  as  that  you  have  sug- 
12* 


138  CLARENCE;  OR 

i;  gested.  My  uncle,  Gerald  Roscoe,  was  one  of 
;{ that  unlucky  brotherhood  that  have  fallen  under 
"  your  lash,  and  so  far  from  being  a  *  dropped  link, 
;<not  missed,  and  soon  forgotten,'  he  had  that 
il  warmth  and  susceptibility  of  heart,  that  activity 
'•'  and  benevolence  of  disposition,  that  strengthen 
u  and  brighten  the  chain  that  binds  man  to  man, 
5t  and  earth  to  heaven.  Blessed  be  his  memory  I 
<{  I  never  see  an  old  bachelor  that  my  heart  does 
"  not  warm  to  him  for  his  sake.  But  to  my  story. 
"  My  uncle — a  Howard  in  his  charities — (you 
"  touched  a  nerve,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lay  ton,  when 
44  you  satarised  old  bachelors) — my  uncle,  on  a 
"  visit  to  our  city  alms-house,  espied  a  little  boy, 
44  who,  to  use  his  own  phrase,  had  a  certain  some- 
u  thing  about  him  that  took  his  heart.  This  certain 
*'  something,  by  the  way,  he  saw  in  whoever  needed 
"  his  kindness.  The  boy  too,  at  the  first  glance 
-'  was  attracted  to  my  uncle.  Children  are  the 
"  keenest  physiognomists — never  at  fault  in  their  first 
Cloves.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  my  uncle,  that  an 
"  errand-boy  was  indispensable  to  him.  The  child 
"  was  removed  to  my  grandfather's,  and  soon  made 
"  such  rapid  advances  in  his  patron's  affections  that 
"  he  sent  him  to  the  best  schools  in  the  city,  and 
"  promoted  him  to  the  parlor,  where,  universal 
"  sufferance  being  the  rule  of  my  grandfather's 
"  house,  he  was  soon  as  firmly  established  as  if  he 
"  had  equal  rights  with  the  children  of  the  family. 
"  This  child  was  then,  as  you  probably  know, 
"  called  Charles  Carroll.  He  was  just  graduated 
"  with  the  first  honors  of  Columbia  College,  when, 
"  within  a  few  days  of  each  other,  my  grandfather 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  139 

*«  and  uncle  died,  and  the  house  of  Roscoe  &  Son 
"  proved  to  be  insolvent.  Young  Carroll,  of  course, 
"  was  cast  on  his  own  energies.     He  would  have 
"  preferred  the  profession  of  law,  but  he  had  fallen 
"  desperately  in  love  with  a  Miss   Lynford,  who 
"  lived  in  dependence  in  her  uncle's  family.     He 
"  could  not  brook  the  humiliations  which,  I  suspect, 
"  he  felt  more    keenly  than  the    subject  of  them, 
"  and  he  married,  and  was  compelled,  by  the  actual 
"  necessities  of  existence,  to  renounce  distant  ad- 
"  vantages  for  the  humble  but  certain  gains  of  a 
"  clerkship.     These  particulars  I  had  from  my  mo- 
"  ther.    You  may  not  have  heard  that  at  the  moment 
"  of  his  accession  of  property  he  suffered  a  calamity 
"  in  the  death    of  an  only    son,    which    deprived 
"  him  of  all  relish,  almost  of  all  consciousness,  of 
"  his   prosperity.     He   would    gladly    have    filled 
•*  the  boy's  yawning  grave  with  the  wealth  which 
"  seemed  to  fall  into  his  hands  at  that  moment,  to 
;t  mock  him  with  its  impotence.     The  boy  was  a 
"  rare  gem.     I  knew  him  and  loved  him,  and  hap- 
*<  pened  to  witness  his  death  ;  and  being  then  at  the 
"  impressible  season   of  life,   it   sunk  deeply   into 
"  my  heart.     It  was  a  sudden,  and  for  a  long  time, 
"  a  total  eclipse  to  the  poor  father.     The  shock 
"  was    aggravated   by    a  bitter    self-reproach,    for 
;t  having,  in  his  engrossing  anxiety  for  the  result  of 
"  his  pending  lawsuit,  neglected  the  child's  malady 
"  while  it  was  yet  curable. 

"  He  was  plunged  into  an  abyss  of  melancholy. 
"  His  health  was  ruined,  and  his  mind  a  prey  to 
"  hypochondriac  despondency.  He  languished  for 
•a  a  year  without  one  effort  to  retrieve  his  spirits. 


140 


CLARENCE  j    OR. 


u  His  physician  prescribed  entire  change  of  scene, 
"  as  the  only  remedy,  and  a  voyage  to  Europe  was 
i{  decided  on.     His  daughter  was  sent  to  Madame 
"  Rivardi's  in  Philadelphia,  where,  by  the  way,  if 
"  she  had  been  of  a  polishable  texture,  she  would 
•'  now  be  something  very  different  from  the  unembel- 
1  <  lished  little  person  you  describe.  Mrs.  Clarence  wen* 
"  abroad  with  her  husband.     My  mother,  who  is  a 
"  sagacious  observer  of  her  own  sex,  says  she  was  a 
"  weak  and  worldly-minded  woman,  quite  unfit  to 
if  manage,   and  certainly  to  rectify,  so  delicate  an 
"  instrument  as  her   husband's  mind.     They  had 
"  been  in  Europe  about  eighteen  months,  when  Mr. 
"  Clarence  received  the  news  of  my  father's  death. 
"  the  last,  and  bitterest  of  our  family  misfortunes. 
"  This  event  roused  Mr.  Clarence'  generous  sym- 
"  pathies.     It  gave  him  a  motive  for  return  and  ex- 
•'  ertion.     He  came  home  to  proffer  assistance  in 
"  every  form  to  my  mother.     He  found  that  she 
"  had  heroically  surmounted  difficulties  with  which 
"  few  spirits  would  have   struggled ;  that  she  had 
"  declined  a  compromise  with  my  father's  creditors, 
•<  and  had  succeeded  in  paying  off  all  his  debts  : 
''  and  that  we  were  living  independently,  but  with 
•'  a  severe  frugality  almost  unparalleled  in  our  boun- 
"  tiful  country.     I  mention  these  particulars  in  jus- 
"  tice  to  Mr.  Clarence,   and  to  do  honor  to  my 
11  mother.     My  mother !    I    never  write  or  speak 
"  her  name  without  a  thrill  through  my  heart.     A 
"  thousand  times  have  I  blessed  the  adversity  that 
"  brought  forth  her  virtue  in  such  sweet  and  beau- 
"  tiful  manifestations.     It  was  there,  like  the  per- 
*;  fume  in  the  flower,  latent  under  the  meridian  sun, 
*  but  exhaled  by  the  beating  tempest, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     141 

"  I  should  not  care  my  wife  should  honor  myme- 
•'  mory  by  mausoleums,  cherished  grief,  and  moping 
"  melancholy,  and  their  ostentatious  ensigns.  Deep 
"  and  even  unchanging  weeds,  do  not  excite  my 
"imagination;  but  the  tender,  cheerful  fortitude 
"  with  which  my  mother  endured  pecuniary  reverses ; 
"  the  unblenching  resolution  with  which  she  met 
"  all  the  perplexing  details  of  business,  never  falter- 
4 'ing  till  my  father's  interrupted  purposes  were 
"  effected,  and  till  his  memory  was  blessed,  even  by 
"  his  creditors  ;  this  is  the  honor  that  would  make 
"  my  ghost  trip  lightly  through  elysium — shame 
"  on  my  heathenism  ! — that  would  enhance  the  hap- 
"  piness  of  heaven. 

"  But  to  return  to  Mr.  Clarence.  He  insisted 
"  that  he  owed  a  debt  to  my  father's  family,  and  that 
"  my  mother  ought  not  to  withhold  from  him  the 
"  right  as  he  had  now  the  opportunity  to  can- 
"  eel  it. 

"  My  mother,  with  the  scrupulousness  which,  if 
"  it  is  an  infirmity,  is  the  infirmity  of  a  noble  mind, 
"  recoiled  from  a  pecuniary  obligation.  Mr.  Cla- 
"  rence,  however,  was  not  to  be  baffled.  Inspired 
"  with  confidence  in  me,  as  he  said,  by  the  ability 
"  with  which  I  had  assisted  my  mother  in  the  man- 
u  agement  of  our  private  disastrous  affairs,  he  made 
"  me  his  man  of  business,  and  paid  me  a  salary  that 
"  relieved  us  at  once  from  our  most  pressing  neces- 
"  sities.  I  soon  after  entered  on  my  profession,  and 
•'  from  that  time  have  received  a  series  of  kindnesses, 
"  which,  in  the  temper  of  his  noble  nature,  he  has 
"  bestowed  as  my  dues,  rather  than  as  his  favours. 
^  It  is  now  five  years  since  I  have  seen  him.  His 


142  CLARENCE;  OB 

"  daughter  I  have  never  seen  since  her  childhood  ; 
"  though   far  less   striking  than  her  brother,    she 
"  was  then   interesting.     I   am  mortified,    on   her 
"  father's  account,  that  she  should  have  turned  out 
"  such  an  ordinary  concern.     But  it  is  a  common 
"  case  ;  the  fruit  rarely  verifies  the  promise  of  the 
"  bud.     However,  I  fancy  her  father  has  his  conso- 
"  lations.     I  infer  from  his  letters  that  she  is  ex- 
"  emplary  in  her  filial  duties.     They  have  resided  at 
"  Clarenceville  ever  since  her  mother's  death,  when 
"  Miss  C.  was  withdrawn  from  school.     It  is  cer- 
"  tainly  a  merit  in  a  girl  of  her  brilliant  expecta 
tions  to  remain  contentedly  buried  alive  in  the 
"  country  —  a  merit  to  point  a  moral,  not  adorn  a 
"  tale.     Is  it  natural  depravity,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lay- 
"  ton,  or  artificial  perversity,  that  makes  us  during 
"  the  romantic  period  of  life  so  insensible  to  useful 
"  home-bred   virtues  ?     l  A   comely   little   body  — 
"amiable  and  rather  clever!'     Heavens!  such  a 
"  picture  would  give  Cupid  an  ague-fit.    The  words 
"  raise  the  long  forgotten  dead  in  my  memory  and 
"carry  me   back  to  good  Parson  Peabody's,  in 
"  Connecticut,  where  I  was  sent  to  learn  Latin  and 
14  Greek,  and  where,  even  then,  my  wicked  heart 
"  revolted  from  *  a  comely  little  body  —  amiable  and 
"  rather  clever,'  a  Miss  Eunice  Peabody  —  a  pat- 
"  tern  damsel.     I  see  her  now  knitting  the  parson's 
"  long  blue  yarn-stockings,  and  at  the  same  time 
"  dutifully  reading  Rollin,  Smollett,  (his  history  !) 
"  and  Russell's  Modern  Europe  —  knitting,  andread- 
.  "  ing  by  the  mark.     Many  a  time  in  my  boyish 
"  mischief  I  have  slipped  back  her  mark,  and  seen 
:l  her  faithfully  and  unspectingly  retrace  the  pages. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  143 

«  though  once,  when  1  had  ventured  to  repeat  the 
«  experiment  on  the  same  portion  of  the   book,  she 
<«  very  sagely  remarked  to  the  admiring  parson « that 
"  there  was  considerable  repetition  in  Rollin..'  How- 
"  ever,  I  beg  Miss  Clarence'  pardon,  and  really 
"take    shame    to  myself  for     any    disrespect    to 
"  one  so  nearly  and  dearly  allied  to  my  excellent 
"  friend,  her  father.     The  truth  is,  I  have  been  a. 
"good  deal  vexed  by  having  her  seriously  proposed 
"to  me  as  a  most  worthy  matrimonial  enterprise, 
"  by  several  of  my  friends,  who  flatter  me  by  say- 
"  ing,  it  would  be  an  acceptable   alliance  to  the 
"  father,  and  that  I  want  nothing  but  fortune  to 
;(  make  a  figure  in  life.     Now  that  is  just  what  I 
"  do  not   want.     I  have  my   own  ambition,   but, 
u  thank  God,  it  does  not  run  in  that  vulgar  channel. 
•;  I  honor  my  profession,  among  other  reasons,  be- 
•<  cause  it  does  not  hold  forth  the  lure  of  wealth. 
"  I  would  press  on  in  the  noble  career  before  me, 
•{  my  eye  fixed  on  such  men  as  Emmet  and  Wells, 
"  and  if  I  attain  eminence  it  shall  be  as  they  have 
"  attained  it,  by  the  noblest  means — the  achieve- 
•;  ments  of  the  mind ;  and  the  eminence  shall  be 
-too,  like  that  «  holy  hill  of  the  Lord,  to  which 
•'  none  shall  ascend  but  those  that  wash  their  hands 
•'  in  innocency.'    If  you  have  the  common  prejudice? 
•'•  against  my  profession,  you  may  think  this  holy 
;;  hill  as  inaccessible  to  lawyers,  as  the  promised 
i{  land   was   to  the  poor   sinning  Israelites.     But 
"  allow  me,  by  way  of  an  apt  illustration  of  my  own 
;;  ideas,  to  repeat  to  you  a  compliment  I  received 
-{  from  Agrippa,  an  old  negro-servant  of  my  fa*- 


144 


CLARENCE;    OR 


"ther.  He  came  into  my  office  and  looking 
"  round  with  great  complacency,  said,  *  Well,  Mas- 
"  ter  Gerald,  you've  raly  got  to  be  a  squire.' 

"  *  Yes,  Grip;  but  I  hope  you  do  not  think  that 
"  lawyers  cannot  be  good  men.' 

"  'No,  that  I  don't  sir;  clean  hands  must  do  a 
"  great  deal  of  dirty  work  in  this  world.' 

"  I  shall  never  undertake  a  doubtful  cause — ane- 
"  cessity  wlnYh  I  believe  the  best  ethics  include 
"  among  our  legal  duties — without  consoling  myself 
"  with  Agrippa's  apothegm.  But  enough,  and  too 
"  much,  of  egotism.  One  word  as  to  your  womanly 
"  fancy  that  Miss  Clarence  blushed  at  the  mention  of 
"  my  name ;  I  never  knew  a  woman  that  had  not  a  gift 
"  for  seeing  blushes  and  tears.  Poor  Miss  Clarence ! 
"  Never  was  there  a  more  gratuitous  fancy  than 
"  this. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  madam,  for  a  more  agreea- 
"  ble  topic.  When  do  you  return  to  the  city  ?  I 
"  am  becoming  desperate.  My  dear  mother  has 
"  been  at  Schooley's  mountain  for  the  last  four 
"  weeks;  and  since  your  parting  «  God  bless  you,' 
"  I  have  not  exchanged  one  word  with  *  Heaven's 
"  last,  best  work.'  My  condition  reminds  me  of  a 
'•'  play,  written  by  a  friend  of  mine,  which  was  re- 
"  turned  to  him  by  the  manager,  with  this  comment. 
"  '  It  will  not  do,  sir.  Why  there  is  not  a  woman  in 
"  it;  and  if  your  men  were  heroes  or  angels,  they 
"  must  be  damned  without  women/  Now  I  am  far 
"  enough  from  being  hero  or  angel ;  but  there  is  no 
"  paradise  to  me  without  women — without  you,  my 
"  dear  madam and — rny  mother.  I  put  her  in, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.      145 

"  not  so  much  for  duty's,  as  for  truth's  sake.  Com- 
'' mend  me  to  Miss  Emilie;  it  is  no  wonder  she 
"  should  love  the  country — all  that  is  sweet,  beau- 
''  tiful,  and  inspiring  in  nature,  is  allied  to  her. 

"  My  temper  was  put  to  the  test  the  other  day  on 
•'  her  account ;  or  more  on  yours,  than  hers.  Tom 
"  Reynolds  joined  me  on  the  Battery.  <  So,'  said 
;£  he,  'your  friend  Mrs.  Layton  has  made  a  grand 
4*  match  for  her  peerless  daughter!' 

"  '  How  ?  to  what  do  you  allude  ?' 

"  '  Bless  me !  you  have  not  heard  that  Emilie 
"  Layton  is  engaged  to  the  rich  Spaniard,  Pe- 
"  drillo  ?' 

"  *  Pshaw !  that  is  too  absurd.  Pedrillo  is  a  fo- 
vi  reigner,  unknown,  and  twice  Miss  Layton's  age.' 

"  '  Mere  bagatelles,  my  dear  sir.  He  is  rich ;  and 
"  put  what  you  please  in  the  other  scale,  and  it  kicks 
"  the  beam,  that  is,  if  fathers  and  mothers  are  to 
"  strike  the  balance.' 

"  '  Upon  my  word,  you  do  them  great  ho- 
•;  nor ;  but  in  this  case  I  fancy  Miss  Layton's  own 
•'  inclinations  will  be  consulted.' 

"  '  Tant  mieux.  Pedrillo  is  a  devilish  genteel 
"  fellow,  handsome  enough,  and  has  a  very  insinu- 
•{  ating  address.  What  more  can  a  girl  ask  for?' 

"  I  was  not,  as  you  may  suppose,  my  dear  ma- 
•'  dam,  fool  enough  to  throw  away  any  sentiment  on 
"  a  man  destitute  of  the  first  principles  on  which 
"  sentiment  is  founded.  So  we  parted;  but  I  was 
"  indignant  that  rumor  should  for  a  moment  class 
"  you  with  persons  who  are  degraded  far  below  the 
"  level  of  those  pagan  parents  who  abandon  their 
VOL.  I.  13 


146  CLARENCE;  OR 

"  children  to  the  elements,  or  sacrifice  them  to  theii 
u  divinities.  Of  all  the  mortifying  spectacles  of  ci- 
"  vilized  life,  I  know  none  so  revolting  as  a  parent 
'<  — a  mother — who  is  governed  by  mercenary  mo~ 
"  tives  in  controlling  the  connubial  destiny  of  a 
"  daughter !  But  why  this  to  you,  who  are  inde- 
"  pendent,  to  a  fault,  (I  should  say,  if  the  queen  could 
"  do  wrong,)  of  all  pecuniary  considerations  ? 

"But  my  letter  is  so  long,  that  my  moral  has 
;<  little  chance  of  being  read;  so  here  is  an  end 
"  of  it.  Return,  I  beseech  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lay- 
"  ton  ;  nothing  has  any  tendency  to  fill  the  vacancy 
"  you  make  in  the  life  of  your  devoted  friend  and 
"  servant, 

;<  GERALD  ROSCOE.'' 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  147 


CHAPTER  XI. 

•(  Rural  recreations  abroad,  and  books  at  home,  are  the  innocent 
pleasures  of  a  man  who  is  early  wise,  and  gives  fortune  no  more 
hold  of  him  than  of  necessity  he  must."  DRYDEN. 

THE  sentiment  of  Dry  den,  which  we  have  prefix 
ed  to  this  chapter,  accorded  with  Mr.  Clarence' 
views,  and  will  in  part  explain  his  preference  of  a 
rural  life.  But  he  had  other  reasons — reasons  that 
neither  began  nor  terminated  with  himself.  The 
formation  of  Gertrude's  character  was  the  first  object 
of  his  life,  and  he  wished,  while  it  was  flexible,  to  secure 
for  it  the  happiest  external  influences.  He  believed 
that  direct  instruction,  the  mos{  careful  inculcation 
of  wise  precepts,  and  the  constant  vigilance  of  a  sin 
gle  individual,  (even  though  that  individual  be  a 
parent,)  are  insignificant,  compared  with  the  indi 
rect  influences  that  cannot  be  controlled,  or  with 
what  has  been  so  happily  called  the  *  education  of 
circumstances.'  He  wished  to  inspire  his  child  with 
moderation  and  humility.  She  was  surrounded  by 
the  indulgencies  of  a  luxurious  town-establishment, 
and  exposed  to  the  flatteries  of  the  frivolous  and 
foolish.  He  wished  to  give  her  a  knowledge  and 
right  estimate  of  the  Justuses  and  responsibilities  of 
the  fortune  of  which  she  was  to  be  the  dispenser. 
His  lessons  would  be  counteracted  in  a  society  where 
wealth  was  made  the  basis  of  aristocracy  and  fashion. 
He  wished  to  infuse  a  taste  for  rational  and  intelleo 


148  CLARENCE;  OR 

tual  pursuits.  How  was  this  to  be  achieved  amidst 
the  *  dear  five  hundred  friends'  she  had  inherited 
from  her  mother — the  flippant  idlers  of  fashionable 
life  ? 

Mr.  Clarence  was  too  much  of  a  philosopher  to 
condemn  en  masse  the  class  of  fashionable  society. 
He  knew  there  were  individual  exceptions  to  its  ge 
neral  character,  but  he  regarded  them  as  the  golden 
sands  borne  on  the  current,  not  giving  it  a  new  di 
rection.  He  esteemed  the  devotees  to  morning  vi 
sits  and  evening  parties  as  the  mere  foam  on  the 
fountain  of  life — as  having  no  part  in  its  serious  uses 
or  purposes.  He  felt  a  benevolent  compassion  for 
them ;  they  seemed  to  him  like  the  uninstructed  deal* 
and  dumb,  beings  unconscious  of  the  rich  faculties 
slumbering  within  them  ;  faculties,  that  if  awakened 
and  active,  and  directed  to  the  ends  for  which  they 
were  designed  by  their  beneficent  Creator,  would 
change  the  aspect  of  society. 

Mr.  Clarence  was  not  diappointed  in  many  of  tho 
benefits  he  expected  from  his  daughter  passing  the 
noviciate  of  her  life  in  the  country.  She  learned  to 
love  nature  from  an  acquaintance  and  familiarity 
with  its  sublimest  forms,  and  most  touching  aspects. 
Those  glorious  revelations  of  their  Author  refined 
her  taste,  and  elevated  her  imagination  and  her  af 
fections  to  an  habitual  communion  with  Him. 

In  a  simple  state  of  society,  she  felt  the  power  of 
her  wealth  only  in  its  wise  end  benevolent  uses.  She 
learned  to  view  people  and  things  as  they  are,  with 
out  the  false  glare  of  artificial  society.  Her  domes 
tic  energies  were  called  forth  by  the  necessities  of  a 
rountry-establishment,  which,  with  all  the  facilities  of 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     149 

wealth,  does,  it  must  be  confessed,  sometimes  re 
quire  from  the  lady  of  the  menage  the  skill  of  an  ac 
tual  operator. 

In  this  education  of  circumstances,  there  was  one 
which  had  a  paramount  influence  on  the  character 
of  Gertrude  Clarence — her  intercourse  with  her 
father.  Gibbon  has  said,  that  the  affection  subsist 
ing  between  a  brother  and  sister  is  the  only  Platonic 
love.  Has  not  that  sentiment  that  binds  a  father  to 
his  daughter,  the  same  generosity  and  tenderness 
arising  from  the  distinction  of  sexes,  and  with  that 
something  higher  and  holier  ? 

A  parent  stands,  as  it  were^  on  the  verge  of  two 
worlds,  and  blends  the  fears  and  hopes  of  both.  He 
feels  those  anxieties  and  dreads  that  arise  from  an 
experience  of  the  uncertainties  of  this  life,  and  that 
inexpressible  tenderness,  and  those  illimitable  desires, 
that  extend  to  the  eternal  hereafter. 

Mr.  Clarence  had  perhaps  an  undue  anxiety  in 
regard  to  the  possible  evils  of  the  present  life.  His 
mind  never  quite  recovered  from  the  melancholy 
infused  into  it  by  the  relation  of  his  father's  history. 
The  shocking  death  of  Jiis  son  nearly  destroyed 
for  the  time  his  mental  faculties,  and  perma 
nently  impaired  his  health.  He  timidly  shrunk 
from  every  form  of  evil  that  might  assail  his  child, 
not  considering  that  she  had  the  unabated  ardor,  and 
the  elastic  spirit  that  are  necessary  to  sustain  the  bur 
den  of  life.  Gertrude's  character,  originally  of  a 
firm  texture,  was  strengthened  by  her  father's  timi 
dity.  Her  resolution  and  cheerfulness  were  always 
equal  to  his  demands,  and  these  were  sometimes  un 
reasonable.  His  solicitude  sometimes  degenerated 
13* 


150  CLARENCE;  OR 

to  weakness,  and  his  sensibility  to  petulance.  To 
these  Gertrude  opposed  a  resoluteness,  and  equa 
nimity,  that  to  a  careless  and  superficial  observer 
might  seem  coldness ;  but  such  know  not  how  care 
fully  the  fire  that  is  used  only  for  holy  purposes  is 
concealed  and  guarded. 

But  our  fair  readers  may  be  curious  to  know 
whether  Gertrude's  rustication  was  to  be  perpetual : 
whether  the  matrimonial  opportunities  of  a  rich 
heiress,  were  to  be  circumscribed  to  the  few  chance? 
of  a  country-lottery  ?  and  whether  she  had  arrived 
at  the  age  of  nineteen  without  any  pretenders  to  her 
exclusive  favor  ?  Certainly  not.  The  spirit  of  enter 
prise,  in  every  form,  is  too  alert  in  our  country  to 
permit  the  hand  of  an  heiress  to  remain  unsoli 
cited,  and  Gertrude  Clarence  was  addressed  by 
suitors  of  every  quality  and  degree.  Clergymen, 
doctors,  lawyers,  and  forwarding  merchants,  ad 
dressed,  we  should  perhaps  say  approached  her,  for 
they  soon  found  something  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Clarenceville  that  chilled  and  nipped  their  young 
hopes — they  soon  felt,  all  >but  the  most  obtuse,  that 
Gertrude  Clarence  was  no  game  for  the  mere  for 
tune-hunter. 

But,  ask  my  fair  young  readers,  did  she  pass  the 
most  susceptible  years  of  her  life  without  any  of 
those  emotions  and  visions  that  disturb  all  our  ima 
ginations  ?  She  had  her  dreams,  her  beau-ideal. 
Her  memory  had  retained  the  image  of  a  certain 
youth  who  had  appeared  to  her  in  all  the  graces  of 
dawning  manhood  when  she  was  a  very  young 
and  unobserved  child.  In  her  memory  he  had 
been  associated  with  her  brother,  so  fondly  loved. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  151 

so  long  and  deeply  lamented.  In  her  hopes — 
no,  her  thoughts  did  not  take  so  definite  a  form — 
in  her  visions,  there  was  one  personification  of  all 
that  to  her  imagination  was  noble,  graceful,  and 
captivating.  Her  father  unwittingly  cherished  this 
preposession. 

His  debt  to  the  Roscoe  family,  and  his  love  to  its 
departed  members,  inspired,  naturally,  a  very  strong 
interest  in  Gerald,  now  its  sole  representative.  Ge 
rald's  personal  merit  confirmed  this  interest.  Mr. 
Clarence  delighted  to  talk  of  him  to  Gertrude,  to 
dwell  on  and  magnify  his  rare  qualities.  He  main 
tained  a  constant  correspondence  with  Mr.  Clarence, 
and  his  graceful  and  spirited  letters  seemed  to  im 
part  to  her  acquaintance  with  his  character,  the 
vividness  of  personal  intercourse. 

It  was  natural  that  Mr.  Clarence,  in  looking  for 
ward  to  the  probable  contingency  of  Gertrude's  mar 
riage,  should  in  his  own  mind  fix  on  Gerald  Roscoe, 
as  the  only  person  to  whom  he  would  willingly  re 
sign  her  ;  but  it  certainly  was  not  prudent  to  infuse 
:i  predilection  into  her  mind,  and  to  nourish  that  pre 
dilection  without  calculating  all  the  chances  against 
its  gratification,  and  that  fatal  but  unthought  of 
chance,  that  her  sentiment  might  not  be  reciprocated. 

But  we  are  in  danger  of  anticipating,  and  we 
proceed  to  give  a  day  at  Clarenceville  which  will 
enable  our  readers  to  judge  of  our  heroine's  cha 
racter,  from  its  developement  in  action,  a  mode  as 
much  more  satisfactory  than  mere  description,  as  a 
book  than  its  table  of  contents. 

Mr.  Clarence'  house  was  no  '  shingle  palace,'  but 
u  well  built,  spacious,  and  commodious  modern  edi- 


152  CLARENCE;    OR 

fice,  standing  on  a  gentle  slope  on  the  northeast 
shore  of  one  of  the  beautiful  lakes  in  the  western 
part  of  the  state  of  New  York.  The  position  of  the 
house  was  judiciously  selected  to  economize  sun 
shine,  and  soft  breezes,  the  luxuries  of  a  climate 
where  winter  reigns  for  six  months.  Literally,  the 
monarch  of  all  he  surveyed,  Mr.  Clarence'  right  of 
property  had  enabled  him  to  save  from  the  relentless 
axe  of  the  settler,  a  tine  extent  of  forest  trees  that 
sheltered  him  from  the  biting  north  winds,  and 
rising  in  strait  and  lofty  columns,  a  '  lonely  depth 
of  unpierced  woods'  offered  a  tempting  retreat  to  the 
romantic  and  the  contemplative ;  or  to  those  more 
apt  to  seek  its  l  lonely  depths,'  the  sportsman  and 
deer-hunter.  Between  the  house  and  the  lake,  not  a 
tree  had  been  suffered  to  remain  to  intercept  the 
view  of  the  clear  sparkling  sheet  of  water,  the  soul 
of  the  scene. 

The  lawn  was  circular,  and  surrounded  with 
shrubs  and  flowers,  which  Gertrude  loved  better 
than  any  thing,  not  of  human  kind. 

Sweet-briars,  corcoruses,  passion-flowers,  and 
honey-suckles,  wreathed  the  pillars  of  the  piazza  ; 
and  the  garden  which  was  a  little  on  the  right  of 
the  house,  and  filled  with  fruit-trees,  and  arranged  in 
terraces,  covered  with  grapes,  tempered  the  bolder 
features  of  the  scene  with  an  air  of  civilization,  re 
finement,  and  even  luxury.  The  opposite  shore  of 
the  lake,  was  mountainous,  wild,  and  rugged,  and 
enriched  with  many  an  Indian  tradition.  The  lake 
was  not  a  barren  sheet  of  water,  but  dotted  with 
islands,  some  without  a  tree  or  shrub,  green,  fresh, 
and  smooth,  looking  as  if  they  might  have  been 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


153 


the  cast-off  mantles  of  the  sylvan  deities  ;  others 
were  embowered  with  trees,  and  overgrown  with 
native  grape-vines,  that  had  leaped  from  branch 
to  branch,  and  hung  their  leafy  draperies  on  every 
bough. 

Less  romantic,  but  not  less  agreeable  objects  ter 
minated  the  perspective  ;  a  thriving  village,  with  its 
churches,  academy,  and  court-house,  and  all  the  in 
signia  of  an  advancing,  busy  population. 

The  day  we  have  mentioned  was  that  appointed  for 
Mrs.  Layton  and  the  Uptons  to  dine  at  Clarenceville, 
Any  interruption  of  his  customary  occupations  was 
apt,  before  breakfast,  to  disturb  Mr.  Clarence'  se 
renity.  The  demon  of  dyspepsia  was  then  lord  of 
the  ascendant.  When  he  entered  the  breakfast  par 
lor,  Gertrude  and  Mr.  Seton  only  were  there. 
"  Where  is  the  breakfast,  Gertrude  ?"  he  asked.  "  I 
hope  you  do  not  mean  to  wait  for  Miss  Emilie. 
Young  ladies  should  really  learn  that  good  man 
ners  require  them  to  rise  at  the  family  hours." 

"  Emilie  was  up  with  the  birds,  papa,  and  ha> 
gone  to  walk." 

"To  walk!  my  dear  child,  how  could  you  per 
mit  her  to  expose  herself  to  the  morning  air  ?" 

"  I  was  asleep." 

"  Asleep !  Nothing  is  more  fatal  to  health  than 
sleeping  in  the  morning.  I  have  mentioned  to  you 
the  anecdote  of  Lord  Mansfield,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  O  yes,  papa."  And  Gertrude  could  scarcely 
repress  a  smile,  when  she  recollected  how  many  times 
it  had  been  mentioned  to  her. 

"  I  presume,  Gertrude,  it  is  not  necessary  to  wait 
breakfast  for  Miss  Layton." 


154 


CLARENCE;  OR 


"  Not  at  all,  sir ;  I  have  ordered  it  already." 

Mr.  Clarence  walked  to  the  window,  and  unhap 
pily  espied  his  favorite  riding-horse.  "What  a 
stupid  scoundrel  John  is !"  he  exclaimed,  "  to  leave 
Ranger  in  the  sun." 

Seton  started  from  his  seat :  "It  was  not  John, 
sir ;  I  have  been  riding,  and  I  took  it  for  granted 
that  John  would  see  the  horse." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Seton  ;  but  really,  sir, 
it  is  not  agreeable — it  is  not  the  thing  to  use  a  horse 
in  this  way."  Poor  Seton  went  with  all  possible 
haste  to  repair  his  fault,  while  Mr.  Clarence  conti 
nued,  "Such  imbecility  is  really  too  bad;  twenty 
good  shades  within  as  many  yards.  He  '  took  it  for 
granted  John  would  see  the  horse ;'  this  *  taking  it 
for  granted'  is  just  the  difference  between  those  that 
get  along  in  the  wurld,  and  those  that  slump 
through.  Do  you  know  why  Sarah  does  not  bring 
the  breakfast,  Gertrude  f" 

"  I  hear  her  coming,  sir." 

"What  are  you  looking  at,  Gertrude?  Oh,  I 
see — Ranger  has  got  away  from  Louis ;  I  expected 
it.  Sarah,  send  John  instantly  here."  Mr.  Cla 
rence  threw  up  the  sash,  and  would  have  expressed 
his  impatient  displeasure  to  Seton,  but  Gertrude  laid 
her  hand  on  his  arm  : 

"  My  dear  father !  Lewis  is  not  well  this  morn 
ing." 

Mr.  Clarence  put  down  the  window,  walked  once 
or  twice  across  the  room,  and  asked  for  the  Edin 
burgh-Review.  Gertrude  looked  on  the  tables,  on 
the  book-shelves,  on  the  piano,  on  every  thing  that 
could  support  a  book ;  but  the  London  Quarterly, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     155 

I  he  North  American,  the  Literary  Gazette,  New 
Monthly,  Ladies'  Magazine,  the  Analectic,  Eclec 
tic,  every  thing  but  the  Edinburgh,  was  forthcom 
ing-— £>to  had  vanished. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  looking,  Gertrude ;  it's  gone 
of  course ;  it's  of  no  consequence  ;  the  breakfast  is 
here."  They  sat  down;  but  here  a  new  series  of 
trials  commenced.  The  coffee  was  burned  too  much, 
and  Mr.  Clarence  made  his  daily  remark,  that  he 
believed  all  the  difficulty  might  be  remedied,  if  peo 
ple  would  say  roast  coffee,  instead  of  burnt  coffee. 
Then  the  dyspeptic  bread  had  been  forgotten,  and 
the  family  bread  was  underbaked  ;  the  fish  was  cold, 
and  the  eggs  were  stale.  Sarah  was  inquired  of, 
*  why  fresh  eggs  had  not  been  gotten  from  John 
Smith's.' 

"Mr.  Smith  don't  calculate  to  part  with  any 
more  till  after  Independence." 

"  I  dare  say ;  it  is  all  independence  to  our  farming 
gentry !  Has  Mrs.  Carter  brought  the  fowls  for 
dinner,  Sarah  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  she  has  concluded  not  to." 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  that?" 

"  Why,  sir,  she  says  poor  Billy  reared  them,  and 
<he  don't  love  to  spare  them." 

"  Nonsense  !  tell  John  to  go  down  and  tell  her  I 
must  have  them." 

"I  have  another  errand  for  John  to  do  at  the 
same  time,"  whispered  Miss  Clarence  to  the  girl ; 
"  tell  him  to  wait  till  after  breakfast." 

While  these  domestic  inquiries  had  been  making, 
Miss  Clarence  had  prepared  some  remarkably  fine 
black  tea,  just  received  from  New  York — the  gar- 


156  CLARENCE;    OR 

dener  had  sent  in  a  basket  of  strawberries,  the  first 
product  of  the  season — and  the  cook  had  found  a 
mislaid  loaf  of  the  favorite  bread ;  and  when  Miss 
Emilie  Layton  returned  from  her  walk,  all  radiant 
and  glowing  with  beauty,  health,  and  spirits,  Mr. 
Clarence  was  in  the  best  humor  possible.  "  Up 
rose  the  sun,  and  up  rose  Emily !"  he  exclaimed. 
"Pardon  me,  my  dear  little  girl,  I  do  not  often 
quote,  even  prose ;  but  you  look  so  like  the  spirit  of 
the  jocund  morning" — he  drew  her  chair  close  to  him 
self,  kissed  her  white  dimpled  hand — "  the  privilege 
of  an  old  man,  Miss  Emilie — don't  look  cast-down, 
Louis ;  every  dog  must  have  his  day." 

"  What  delightful  spirits  you  are  in,  Mr.  Cla 
rence  !"  said  the  young  lady. 

"Spirits!  ah  my  dear  Miss  Emilie,  bless  your 
stars  that  you  did  not  see  me  half  an  hour  sooner. 
I  have  been  tormenting  poor  Gertrude  and  Louis ; 
but  I  can't  help  it — I  believe  spirits,  sensibility,  eve 
ry  thing,  as"  a  friend  of  mine  says,  depend  on  the 
state  of  the  stomach.  Don't  eat  that  egg — take 
some  of  these  strawberries,  Miss  Layton ;  they  are 
delicious  haut  bois." 

"  I  prefer  the  egg,  sir  ;  I  am  very  hungry." 

"  Stop,  my  dear  girl !  don't  you  know  you  should 
always  open  an  egg  at  the  obtuse  end,  and  if  it  is 
perfectly  full  to  the  shell,  it  is  fresh  ;  I  have  tried  the 
experiment  all  summer,  and  I  have  not  found  half  a 
dozen  good  ones." 

"  And  I  have  broken  all  mine  in  the  middle,  and 
never  found  a  poor  one,"  said  Miss  Layton,  dashing 
hers  out,  and  proceeding  to  eat  it  with  the  keen  relish 
of  a  youthful  and  stimulated  appetite. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  157 

"  I  like  that — I  like  that,  Miss  Emilie ;  that  makes 
ill  the  difference  in  life,  the  difference  between  such 
a  poor  fidgetty  creature  as  I  am,  and  such  a  happy 
spirit  as  yours.  Go  on,  my  dear  child,  and  break 
your  eggs  in  the  middle  for  ever ;  but  excuse  me,  I 
have  an  errand  that  must  be  done  immediately,"  and 
he  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Are  you  going  to  the  widow  Carter's?"  asked 
Gertrude,  with  a  very  significant  smile. 

"  Yes,"  and  though  Mr.  Clarence  bit  his  lip,  he 
smiled  in  return. 

"  It  is  unnecessary.  John  was  directed  not  to  do 
the  errand  till  after  breakfast." 

"  There  it  is — see  there,  Miss  Emilie — My  good 
Gertrude  has  saved  me  from  playing  Blue  Beard 
on  a  poor  widow's  chickens  this  morning.  The 
brood  of  a  Heaven-forsaken  boy  of  hers  who 
has  been  drowned  in  the  lake  this  summer — the 
only  good  thing  the  graceless  little  dog  ever  did,  was 
to  rear  these  chickens.  It  would  have  been  a  worse 
case  than  that  of  the  widow's  cow,  immortalized  by 
Fenelon — all  the  poultry  in  Christendom  would  nol 
have  made  up  the  loss  to  her,  and  she  would  have 
sent  them,  poor  soul  !  she  would  have  surrendered 
her  life,  if  either  Gertrude  or  I  had  required  it." 

Mr.  Clarence  had  resumed  his  seat,  and  taken  up 
a  newspaper,  when  a  servant  entered  with  letters 
from  the  post-office ;  they  were  distributed  accord 
ing  to  their  different  directions.  Miss  Layton 
looked  conscious  and  disturbed,  and  retreated  to  her 
apartment.  Mr.  Clarence  broke  the  seal  of  hisr 
saying  it  was  a  short  business-letter,  and  that  he 
had  left  his  spectacles  in  the  library;  he  asked 
VOL.  I.  14 


158  CLARENCE;  os 

Gertrude  to  read  it  to  him.  She  accordingly  leaned 
over  his  shoulder,  and  read  as  follows  :  "I  have 
•"  thought  over  and  over  again  what  I  told  you  the 
"  day  we  parted.  I  am  right- — It  is  all  fudge — there 
41  is  no  lion  in  the  way.  I  tell  you  again,  make  hay 
"  while  the  sun  shines — strike  while  the  iron  is  hot 
"  — clench  the  nail" — Louis  started  from  his  seat, 
but  Miss  Clarence  without  observing  him,  read  on, 
46  straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows.  If  I  have 
"  eyes,  it  sets  from  the  right  quarter — delays  arc 
"  dangerous.  A  certain  person's  life  hangs  by  a 
41  thread,  and  when  he's  gone,  she's  off  to  the  city, 
"  and  snapped  up  by  the  dandies — three  hundred 

"thousand " 

"  Stop,  for  God's  sake  !"  cried  Seton,  and  snatch 
ing  the  letter,  flushed  and  trembling,  he  instantly  dis 
appeared.  Mr.  Clarence  closed  the  door  after  him, 
and  turning  to  Gertrude,  asked  her  what  could  be 
the  meaning  of  this.  Gertrude  was  in  tears  ;  for  a 
moment  she  could  not  reply,  but  taking  up  a  letter 
Seton  had  dropped,  and,  glancing  at  it  and  looking 
at  the  signature,  "  It  is  so,"  she  said ;  "the  letters 
are  both  from  that  vulgar  brother  of  Seton — they 
were  misdirected — this  was  meant  for  you." 

The  letter  designed  for  Mr.  Clarence'  eye,  was  as 
follows  :  "  Respected  Sir — I  take  the  liberty,  by 
"  return  of  mail,  to  tender  my  sincere  thanks  to  you 
•'  and  Miss  Clarence,  for  your  politeness  to  me 
-(  during  my  late  visit  to  my  esteemed  brother.  It 
*'  was  very  gratifying  to  me  to  find  your  health  so 
ccmuch  improved,  and  my  brother  so  pleasantly 
;e  situated  in  your  valued  family.  I  think  I  may 
•='  say  Lewis  deserves  his  good  fortune — he  has  al- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES, 


159 


-ways  been   a  remarkably  correct  young   man, 
i{  Louis  has.    It  was  a  disappointment  to  my  father, 
•«  after    giving   him  a    liberal   education,   that  he 
:t  should  take  such  a  turn  for  painting ;  but  Allston, 
"  our  great  painter,  says  he  has  a  remarkable  talent 
"  that  way,  so  that  there  is  a  good  prospect,  if  he 
"  should  go  to  foreign  countries,  that  he  may,  at  some 
"  future  day,  become  as  celebrated  as  Sir  Benjamin 
•<  West;  but  I  for  one  should  be  perfectly  content  to 
-«  have  him  settle  down  in  the  country,  and  only 
"handle  the  brush  for  his  amusement.     My  wife 
"would  be  very  glad  to  accept   Miss  Gertrude's 
"  invitation,  as  she  is  remarkably  fond  of  Louis,  as 
JC  indeed  we  all  are.     The  rose  for  Miss  Gertrude, 
"  and  the  calliflower  for  yourself,  I  shall  do  myself 
"  the  pleasure  to  send  by  the  first  opportunity.    Till 
:<  then  believe  me,  sir,  with  much  respect  and  esteem. 
"  and  gratitude,  to  you  and  to  Miss  Gertrude, 
"  Your  very  obedient, 

"  humble  servant, 

"  WILLIAM  SETON.'* 

•;It  is  too  bad,"  said  Mr.  Clarence,  "  to  be  ex 
pected  to  be  the  dupe  of  such  a  vulgar,  grovelling 
wretch.     Is  it  possible,  Gertrude,  that  Louis  has 
any  thing  in  common  with  this  base  fellow  ?" 
"  Nothing,  my  dear  father,  nothing." 
"  Has  he  in  any  way  indicated  an  intention  oi 
addressing  you  ?" 
"  Never." 

Mr.  Clarence  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then 
added,  "  Pardon  me,  my  dear  child,  for  catechising 
you  a  little  further :  have  you  any  reason  to  think 
that  Louis  loves  you  ?" 


CLARENCE;    OR 

"  I  believe  he  does." 

Gertrude's  tears  dropped  fast  on  the  letter  whicit 
she  still  held  in  her  hand,  folding  and  refolding  it. 
Mr.  Clarence  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  till 
suddenly  stopping,  he  said;  "  Seton  is  not  all  I 
could  have  wished  for  you,  my  dear  Gertrude — his 
delicate  health — the  nervous,  susceptible  constitution 
of  his  mind,  are,  according  to  my  view  of  things, 
great  evils — but  he  is  pure,  and  disinterested,  and 
talented.  I  reverence  a  sentiment  of  genuine  affec 
tion.  It  is  cruel  to  disappoint  or  trifle  with  it. 
I  see  your  emotion,  Gertrude,  your  wishes  shalf 
govern  mine." 

Miss  Clarence  subdued  her  agitation — "You 
misunderstand  my  emotion,  sir,"  she  said ;  "  I  was 
grieved  that  Mr.  Seton  should  have  been  so  out 
raged,  insulted,  that  I  should  myself  have  dragged 
forth  feelings  that  he  has  never  betrayed  but  in 
voluntarily — my  dear  father,  my  only  wish  is  to  live 
and  die  with  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  deliberately  to  abjure  matrimony. 
Gertrude?"  asked  her  father,  reassured,  and  ani 
mated  by  discovering  the  real  state  of  his  daughter's 
heart. 

"No;  that  would  be  ridiculous;  but  I  am  sure, 
fery  sure,  I  shall  never  marry." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  all.  That  resolution  and  feeling 
will  last,  Gertrude,  till  you  see  some  one  worthy  to 
vanquish  it ;  but  that  it  exists  now  is  proof  enough 
that  you  are  yet  fancy  free.  But  what  is  to  be  done 
for  poor  Seton  f  one  thing  is  certain,  he  must  leave 

5." 

"  Do  not  say  so.     We  certainly  can  convince 


A  TALE  OP  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  161 

liow  deeply  we  feel  the  injustice  his  brother  has  done 
him — he  is  sick — at  present  incapable  of  the  labor 
of  his  profession — he  has  no  refuge  but  the  house  of 
his  sordid  brother.  From  you,  my  dear  father,  I 
would  not  hide  a  shade  of  feeling — I  do  love  Louis 
Seton — with  sisterly  affection" — (Mr.  Clarence 
smiled) — "  you  are  incredulous — I  could  voluntarily 
confess  to  Louis  all  I  feel  for  him — can  that  be 
love?" 

"  No ;  but  how  soon  may  it  become  so  ?" 

Never — I  am  confident  of  that — I  have  involun 
tarily  robbed  Louis  of  his  happiness — I  know 
the  exquisite  sensitiveness  of  his  mind — If  he 
were  to  leave  us  now  he  might  never  recover  the 
shock  and  mortification  of  his  brother's  disclosure. 
If  he  remains,  I  think  we  may  by  degrees  restore 
his  self-respect,  his  self-confidence,  and  his  serenity. 
At  least  let  us  try." 

"Do  as  you  please,  my  noble-minded  girl.  I 
am  satisfied  to  trust  every  thing  to  you,  superior  as 
you  are  to  the  heartless  coquetries  and  pruderies  of 
your  sex ;  but  remember  we  are  handling  edged 
tools." 

"  But  not  playing  with  them,"  replied  Gertrude 
with  a  faint  smile  ;  and  then  kissing  her  father,  and 
thanking  him  for  his  compliance,  she  left  him  and 
went  to  a  difficult  task.  She  met  a  servant  in  the 
entry;  "Have  you  seen  Mr.  Seton?"  she  asked. 

"Yes  ma'am;  and  Miss  Clarence,"  he  added, 

drawing   closer  to    her,   and    lowering  his  voice, 

u  there's  something  the  matter  with  Mr.  Seton — he 

just  called  me  to  pack  his  clothes,  and  he  was  all  in 

14* 


CLARENCE;    OR 

?i  flutter,  and  just  walked  about  the  room  without 
doing  the  least  thing  for  himself." 

"Mr.  Seton  is  ill,  John,  and  insists  on  leaving 
as  ;  but  we  must  prevent  him.  You  would  all  bt 
willing  to  nurse  him,  would  you  not,  John  ?" 

"  Indeed,  that  would  we,  Miss  Clarance — a  nice, 
quiet  young  man  is  Mr.  Louis." 

"  Then  I  will  try  to  persuade  him  to  stay.  Tell 
him,  John,  I  wish  to  speak  with  him  in  the  library.'' 
Miss  Clarence  having  thus  adroitly  averted  the  gos 
siping  suspicions  of  the  inferior  departments  of  the 
family,  repaired  to  the  library.  Seton  soon  fol 
lowed  her.  He  had  an  expression  of  self-command 
and  offended  pride,  bordering  on  haughtiness,  and 
so  foreign  to  his  customary,  gentle,  and  sentimental 
demeanor,  that  Gertrude  forgot  her  prepared  speech 
and  said,  "  You  are  not  offended,  Louis  ?" 

"  Offended,  Miss  Clarence ! — I  am  misunder 
stood — defamed — disgraced !" 

"  Louis,  you  are  unjust  to  yourself,  and  unjust  to 
usj  do  you  think  that  my  father  or  I  would  give  a 
second  thought  to  that  silly  letter .?" 

Seton  was  soothed.  He  fixed  his  eye  on  Ger 
trude,  and  she  proceeded.  "It  is  essential  to  our 
happiness  that  we  should  understand  one  another 
perfectly.  Have  we  not  in  two  years  too  firmly  es 
tablished  our  mutual  confidence  and  friendship  to 
have  them  shaken  by  the  accidents  of  this  morning  ?" 
She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  proceeded  with  morr 
emotion.  "  Louis,  you  know  I  lost  my  only  bro 
ther.  It  is  long  ago  that  he  died,  and  I  was  very 
young  at  the  time,  but  I  perfectly  remember  the  ten- 
derness  I  felt  for  him — remember !  I  still  feel  it. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     163 

The  chasm  made  by  his  death  has  never  been  filled. 
You  know  my  father  is  all  that  a  father  can  be  to 
me,  but  for  perfect  sympathy  there  must  be  similar 
age,  pursuits,  and  hopes."  While  Gertrude  dwelt  in 
generals,  she  could  talk  with  the  coolness  of  a  philo 
sopher  ;  but  as  she  again  approached  particulars,  her 
voice  became  tremulous. 

"  I  can,  I  do  feel  for  you,  Louis,  the  sentiments  of 
a  sister — a  sister's  solicitude  for  your  honor  and 
happiness.  I  would  select  you  from  all  the  world 
to  supply  poor  Frank's  place  to  me.  You  will  not 
permit  false  delicacy,  fastidious  scruples,  to  deprive 
me  of  the  brother  of  my  election  ?  Forget  the  past." 
Seton  made  no  reply.  "  You  do  not  mean  to  re 
ject  me,  Louis  ?"  she  added,  playfully  extending 
her  hand  to  him.  He  turned  away  from  her. 

"  Oh  Gertrude  !  Gertrude  !  why  should  I  deceive 
you  ?  why  rather  should  I  suffer  you  to  delude  yourself: 
You  might  as  well  hope  to  distil  gentle  dews  from 
consuming  fire,  as  to  convert  the  sentiment  I  feel 
for  you  into  the  tranquil,  peaceful,  fearless,  satisfied 
love  of  a  brother.  Mine  was  no  common  love— it 
subsisted  without  hope  or  expectation — a  self-sus 
taining  passion — the  light  of  my  existence — the  es 
sence  of  my  life — a  pure  flame  in  the  inmost,  secret 
sanctuary  of  my  heart — that  sanctuary  has  been  vio 
lated.  I  betrayed,  and  another  has  dishonored 
it.  '  Forget  the  past  /'  forget  that  my  thoughts  of 
you  have  been  linked  with  sordid  expectations  and 
base  projects.  God  knows  I  never,  in  one  pre 
sumptuous  moment  aspired  to  you,  but  not  because 
you  were  rich.  In  my  eyes,  your  fortune  is  your 
meanest  attribute — my  poverty  makes  no  part  of 
my  humilit}7. 


CLARENCE;  OR 

"  You  must  not  interrupt  me,  Gertrude.  I  know 
your  generosity — 1  know  all  you  would  say ;  but 
hear  me  out,  now,  while  I  have  courage  to  speak 
of  myself.  I  have  been  injured,  and  the  worm 
trodden  on,  you  know,  will  turn." 

"  I  must  interrupt  you,  Louis  ;  I  cannot  bear  to 
hear  you  speak  of  yourself  in  these  unworthy,  de 
grading  terms." 

"  You  misunderstand  me.  I  do  not  mean  to  de 
grade  but  rather  to  justify  myself,  by  making  yon 
acquainted  with  the  short,  sad  history  of  my  mind. 
I  know  I  am  weak  and  pusillanimous.  Nature  and 
circumstances  have  been  allied  against  me.  I  was 
born  with  a  constitutional,  nervous  susceptibility 
that  none  of  my  family  understood  or  regarded.  I 
was  a  timid,  sensitive  boy.  My  brothers  were  bold 
and  bustling.  They  were  steel-clad  in  health  and 
hardihood,  while  I  shrunk,  as  if  my  nerves  were 
bare,  from  every  breath.  This,  in  their  estimation, 
was  inferiority,  and  so  it  became  in  mine.  I  was 
humbled  and  depressed  ;  my  life  was  an  aching 
void.  I  rose  in  the  morning,  as  poor  Cowper  says 
lie  did,  « like  an  infernal  frog  out  of  Acheron, 
covered  with  the  ooze  and  mud  of  melancholy,'  and 
my  days  flowed  like  a  half-stagnant  and  turbid 
Uream,  that  gives  back  no  image  of  the  bright 
heaven  above  it,  and  takes  no  hue  from  the  pleasant 
objects  past  which  it  obscurely  crawls,  My  spirit 
was  crushed  ;  I  felt  myself  to  be  a  useless  weed  in 
creatioB,  and  when  I  first  discovered  that  I  possessed 
one  talent — one  redeeming  talent — my  heart  beat 
with  the  ecstasy  that  an  idiot  may  feel  when  his 
mind  is  released  from  its  physical  thraldom,  and 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  165 

throbs  with  the  first  pulse  of  intellectual  life.  That 
talent  introduced  me  to  you,  Gertrude,  gave  me 
estimation  in  your  eyes,  was  the  medium  of  our 
daily  intercourse,  and  I  cherished  and  cultivated  it 
as  if  it  were,  as  it  in  truth  was,  the  principle  of  life 
to  me.  The  exercise  of  this  talent,  and  the  secret 
indulgence  of  my  love  for  you,  were  happiness 
enough.  I  expected  nothing  more  :  I  did  not  look 
into  the  future — I  forgot  the  past.  I  was  satisfied 
with  the  full,  pervading  sense  of  present  bliss.  But 
you  are  wearied,  Miss  Clarence,  and  I  am  in 
trusive." 

"  No,  no,  Mr.  Seton,"  replied  Gertrude,  raising 
her  head,  and  removing  from  her  face  the  handker 
chief  that  had  hidden  from  Seton  the  deep  emotion 
with  which  she  listened  to  him.  "  No,  Louis,"  she 
continued  in  the  kindest  and  firmest  tone,  "  but 
such  disclosures  are  useless — they  may  be  worse 
than  useless." 

"  Gertrude,  I  have  no  terms  to  keep  with  con 
sequences,  and  I  pray  you  to  hear  me  out.  My 
tranquillity  vanished  like  a  dream,  when,  last  week, 
I  betrayed  my  passion  to  you.  Your  calmness  and 
gentle  forbearance  soothed  me,  but  it  was  not,  it  is 
not  in  your  power  to  restore  the  self-confidence  I 
felt  while  my*  passion  was  unknown.  A  fever  is 
preying  on  my  life  ;  my  spirits  are  disordered. 
This  cruel  letter  of  my  brother  will  shorten  the 
term  of  my  insupportable  existence — for  this  I  thank 
him.  Nothing  now  remains  but  to  pray  you  to 
render  me  justice  with  your  father;  and  to  beg  you, 
Gertrude,  to  bear  me  kindly  in  your  memory." 
He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  burning  lips, 


166  CLARENCE;  OR 

Gertrude  was  agitated  with  the  conflicting  sug 
gestions  of  her  own  mind.  She  had  sought  the  in 
terview  with  a  definite  and  decided  purpose.  That 
purpose  was  now  nearly  subdued  by  seeing  the 
strength  of  a  sentiment  which  she  had  hoped  to 
modify  or  change.  She  shrunk  with  instinctive 
delicacy  from  the  manifestation  of  a  passion  that 
had  no  corresponding  sentiment  in  her  own  heart. 
Her  first  and  strongest  impulse  was  to  escape  from 
the  sight  of  misery  which  she  could  not  relieve. 
But  <  were  not  these  selfish  suggestions  ?' — *  Could 
she  not  mitigate  it  ?' — «  At  least,'  she  thought,  as 
the  current  of  generous  purpose  flowed  back  through 
her  heart,  4  at  least  I  will  try  what  persevering 
efforts  may  do,'  and  bodying  her  thoughts  in  words, 
"Louis,"  she  said,  "  I  will  not  part  with  you: 
you  must  stay  with  us.  If  I  have  power  over  you> 
it  shall  be  exercised  for  some  better  purpose  than  to 
nourish  a  sentiment  which  I  can  never  return.  It 
may  be  because  I  am  inferior  to  you — certainly  not 
superior — that  was  the  suggestion  of  your  excessive 
humility,  arising  from  circumstances  to  which  you 
have  already  alluded.  You  have  erred,  by  your 
own  confession,  you  have  all  your  life  erred  in  dis 
trusting  and  undervaluing  your  own  powers.  You 
have  now  only  to  put  forth  your  strength  to 
subdue  all  of  your  feelings  that  should  be  sub 
dued." 

"  Do  you  believe  this,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  Believe  it!  I  am  sure  of  it.     The  frankness  of 
our  explanation  has  dissolved  all  mystery.     Hob 
troblins  vanish  in  the   light.     Your  feelings  have 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     167 

been  aggravated  by  concealment.  They  are  toro 
intense  for  any  earthly  object.  Louis,  let  me  use  a 
sister's  liberty  and  give  you  sisterly  counsel;  let 
sne  remind  you  of  one  of  the  safest  passages  of  a 
book  that  you  have  read  and  admired  perhaps  too 
much  for  your  own  happiness.  '  Se  rendre  dignc 
de  Fimmortalite  est  le  seul  but  de  Fexistence — 
bonheur — souffrance-tout  est  moyen  pour  ce  but.5'* 

Seton  caught  one  moment  of  inspiration,  from 
the  sweet  tone  of  assurance  in  which  Gertrude 
spoke.  '  There  is  a  medicament  for  my  wounded 
spirit,'  he  thought ;  but  the  light  was  faint  and 
transient,  like  the  passing  gleam  reflected  by  a 
dark  and  distant  object.  "  Ah,  Gertrude,"  he- 
said,  "  you  are  happy,  and  have  the  energy  and 
hope  of  the  happy ;  but  for  me  there  are  no  bright 
realities  in  life ;  it  is  stripped  of  its  illusions.  Oh, 
most  miserable  is  he  who  survives  the  illusions  of 
life  !  I  am  yet  in  my  youth,  Gertrude,  and  I  look 
forward  with  the  dim,  disconsolate  eye  of  age.  Life 
is  a  dreary  desert  to  me,  beset  with  frightful  forms, 
and  inevitable  perils.  I  am  sick,  and  steeped  in 
melancholy  ;  why  should  I  drag  my  body  of  death 
along  your  bright  path  ?" 

"  You  shall  not,  Louis  ;  we  will  drive  out  the 
foul  fiend,  and  court  the  spirit  of  health  and  cheer 
fulness.  You  know  I  have  had  all  my  life  to  con 
tend  with  the  demons  of  disease  in  my  father. 
Practice  has  given  me  some  skill  in  detecting  and 
expelling  them.  I  will  be  your  leech;  and  you 
shall  promise  to  be  docile  and  obedient.  I  shall 
lock  up  your  easel  for  the  present.  My  father  ha> 


168  CXARENCE;  OR 

proposed  a  jaunt  to  Trenton.  We  will  go  there. 
Beautiful  scenery  should  '  minister  to  the  mind  dis* 
eased'  of  a  painter.  Shall  I  tell  papa  that  I  have 
your  consent  to  go  with  us  ?" 

"Do  what  you  will  with  me.  You  will  be 
blessed  in  your  ministry,  if  I  am  not." 

This  conference,  which  had  been  long  enough, 
was  now  broken  off  by  the  entrance  of  Becky, 
an  old  and  privileged  domestic.  "  I  should  think. 
Mr.  Seton,"  she  said,  "  you  might  have  con 
sideration  enough  to  put  off  your  lessons  to-day, 
when  there  is  but  every  thing  for  Miss  Gertrude 
to  see  to."  Seton  tacitly  acquiesced  in  the  repri 
mand,  and  left  the  apartment. 

Gertrude  was  alarmed  and  oppressed  with  the 
depth  of  poor  Seton' s  sorrow  ;  and  though,  to  him, 
she  had  assumed  a  tone  of  firmness  and  serenity, 
his  despondency  had  infected  her,  and  as  he  left  the 
room,  she  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  her  mind  ab 
stracted  from  every  thing  around  her,  and  filled 
with  gloomy  and  just  presentiments. 

"Miss  Gertrude,"  said  Becky. 

Gertrude  made  no  reply,  she  did  not  even  hear 
Becky,  shrill  and  impatient  as  her  tone  was.  Her 
vacant  eye  accidently  rested  on  a  fine  game-piece 
Seton  had  recently  finished,  which  was  standing  be 
fore  her  on  the  library-table.  Becky  gave  her  own 
interpretation  to  her  mistress'  gaze.  I 

"  It's  well  enough  done  to  be  sure,  but,"  she  added 
with  professional  scorn,  "  it's  a  shame  and  a  sillinesv 
to  take  the  creaters*  lives  in  midsummer,  just  to  draw 
their  pictures,  when  they'd  make  such  a  relishinp 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  169 

uish  in  the  fall.  But  come,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  should 
be  glad  you  would  tell  me  what  we  are  to  do  f 

"  Do,  do  about  what,  Becky  ?" 

"  Did  not  Amandy  tell  you  ?" 

"  Tell  me  what  ?" 

"  Why  Miss  Gertrude  ;  I  never  saw  you  so  with 
your  thoughts  at  the  end  of  the  world,  when  sure  \vc 
had  never  more  need  of  them ;  but  you  will  have  to 
make  up  your  mind  to  it,  for  the  dinner  has  fallen 
through — the  whole — entirely." 

This  was  indeed  an  alarming  annunciation  to  the 
mistress  of  an  establishment,  who  expected  invited 
company  to  dinner,  and  who,  like  Gertrude,  con 
sidered  a  strict  surveillance  of  her  domestic  concerns 
as  among  the  first  of  woman's  temporal  duties.  She 
therefore  recalled  her  thoughts  from  their  wander 
ings,  and  roused  all  her  powers,  to  avert  the 
shower  of  grievances  which  she  saw  lowering  on 
Becky's  clouded  brow. 

We  advise  all  those  who  have  not  experienced  the 
complicated  embarrassments  of  giving  a  dinner-par 
ty  in  a  country- town,  unprovided  with  a  market 
and  other  facilities,  to  skip  the  ensuing  conversation, 
for  they  will  have  no  sympathy  with  the  trials  that 
beset  rural  hospitality — trials  that,  like  woes,  cluster 
;md  sometimes  so  thick  and  heavily,  that  their  poor 
victim  wishes,  but  wishes  in  vain  for  the  bottle 
which  the  good  little  man  in  the  fairy  legend  gave  to 
Mick,  that  did  its  duty  so  handsomely,  and  spread  the 
poor  fellow's  table  so  daintily.  But  alas,  among  all 
our  settlers,  we  have  none  of  these  kind-hearted 
little  people — they  are  the  true  patriots  and  never 
emigrate,  and  unassisted  human  female  ingenuity  is 

VOL.  I.  15 


170  CLARENCE;    OR 

put  to  its  utmost  stretch.  Fortunately  Miss  Cla 
rence  was  not  often,  and  certainly  not  on  the  pre 
sent  occasion,  of  a  temper  to  be  daunted  by  the 
minor  miseries  of  human  life,  and  she  now  demand- 
ed  of  her  domestic,  with  an  air  of  philosophy  which 
Becky  deemed  quite  inappropriate,  what  was  the 
matter  ? 

"  Matter,  Miss  Gertrude  !  matter  enough  to  turn 
a  body's  hair  gray ;  and  to  cap'  all,  Judge  Upton 
has  just  sent  down  word  that  he  shall  bring  a  grand 
English  gentleman  with  him.'7 

"  Oh,  is  that  all,  Becky  f  Then  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  order  John  to  lay  an  additional  plate." 

"An  additional  plate,  indeed!  I  think,  ma'am, 
you  had  better  order  something  to  put  on  it." 

"  I  ordered  the  dinner  yesterday,"  said  •  Miss 
Clarence,  with  faint  voice  and  faint  heart ;  for  she 
well  knew  that  the  result  of  ordering  a  dinner,  bore 
a  not  very  faint  resemblance  to  that  of  '  calling 
spirits  from  the  vasty  deep.' 

"  "fes,  ma'am,  I  know  you  ordered  it ;  but  I  told 
Amandy  to  let  you  know  that  the  butcher  did  not 
come  down  from  the  village  this  morning,  and 
we've  neither  lamb  nor  veal  in  the  house." 

"  But  we  have  Neale's  fine  mutton  ?" 

"  Not  a  pound  of  it.  He  came  up  yesterday  to 
say  his  fat  sheep  had  all  strayed  away." 

u  Why  did  not  you  tell  me?" 

"  You  were  riding  out,  ma'am,  and  I  sent  John 
to  Hilson  for  a  roaster." 

"  Oh,  spare  me,  Becky  ;  a  roaster,  you  know,  is 
papa's  aversion,  and  mine  too." 

"  I  know  that,  Miss  Gertrude,  but  then  I  thought 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  171 

10  myself,  it's  no  time  to  be  notional  when  there's 
company  invited,  and  not  a  pound  of  fresh  to  be 
had  for  love  or  money  ;  but  as  ill  luck  would  have 
it,  Hilson  had  engaged  the  whole  nine  for  the  Inde 
pendence  dinner,  a  delightsome  sight  they'll  be,  all 
standing  on  their  feet  with  each  an  ear  of  corn  in 
his  mouth.  But  thinking  of  them,"  added  Becky, — 
mentally  reproaching  herself  for  this  gush  of  pro 
fessional  enthusiasm, — "  Thinking  of  them  wont 
fill  our  dishes ;  and  so,  Miss  Gertrude,  I  want  you 
to  send  word  to  the  Widow  Carter,  you  must  have 
her  fowls,  whether  or  no.  To  be  sure  they'll  be 
rather  tough,  killed  at  this  time  of  day." 

•"  Yes,  Becky,  since  we  know  why  she  refuses 
them,  they  would  be  too  tough  eating  for  any  of  us. 
No,  I  had  rather  give  our  friends  a  dinner  of  straw 
berries  and  cream." 

"  Cream !  the  thunder  turned  all  that  last  eve- 
Ming." 

"  The  elements  against  us  too  !" 

*'  Elements  !  ice  creams,  you  mean.  No,  ma'am, 
they  were  mixed  last  night ;  but  Malviny  says  she 
can't  stay  to  freeze  them.  She  must  go  down  to 
the  village  to  Mrs.  Smith's  funeral.  She  says  the 
general  expects  it." 

"It  is  a  hard  case,  Becky;  but  we  must  make 
the  best  of  it.  You  must  not  let  this  Englishman 
spy  out  the  nakedness  of  our  land.  Your  fingers 
and  brains  never  failed  me  yet,  Becky.  Now  let 
us  think  what  we  have  to  count  upon." 

"  There's  as  good  a  ham  as  ever  came  from 
Virginia." 

"  Yes,    or  Westphalia  either,  and  as  beautiful 


172  CLARENCE;  OR 

lettuces  as  ever  grew.  Ham  and  salad  is  a  dinner 
for  a  prince,  Becky  ;  and  then  you  can  make  up  a 
dish  from  the  veal  of  yesterday  with  currie — bouillic 
a  tongue — prepare  a  dish  of  maccaroni — see  that 
the  vermicelli  soup  is  of  your  very  best,  Becky — 
papa  says  nobody  makes  it  better — and  the  trout, 
you  forgot  the  trout,  here  comes  old  Frank  up  the 
avenue  with  them  now — bless  the  old  soul,  he  never 
disappoints  us — boil,  stew,  fry  the  trout;  ever} 
body  likes  fresh  trout.  As  to  the  ice-creams,  tell 
Malvina  she  shall  go  down  to  the  village  to  every 
funeral  for  a  year  to  come,  if  she  will  give  up  the 
general's  lady.  The  dinner  will  turn  out  well  yet, 
Becky.  As  you  often  say, 4  it's  always  darkest  just 
before  day.'" 

"  And  you  beat  all,  Miss  Gertrude,  for  making 
day-light  come,"  replied  Becky,  pleased  with  her 
mistress'  compliment,  and  relieved  by  her  read} 
ingenuity.  "  There's  few  ladies  use  what  little- 
sense  they  have  got  to  any  purpose.  If  there  were 
more  of  them  had  your  head-work,  the  house-busi 
ness  would  not  get  so  tangled,  and  that's  what  John 
and  I  often  say."  Thus  mutually  satisfied,  mistress 
and  servant  parted. 

Miss  Clarence'  thoughts  reverted  to  Seton  ;  and 
she  repaired  to  her  own  apartment,  happy  in  the 
consciousness  of  a  firm  resolve  to  make  every 
effort  to  secure  his  tranquillity.  Alas,  that  human 
judgment  should  be  so  blind  and  weak,  that  its  best 
wisdom  often  leads  to  the  most  fearful  consequences  ! 

When  Gertrude  entered  her  own  apartment,  she 
found  Emilie  Layton  sitting  at  a  writing-desk,  busily 
employed  in  answering  her  letters.  Her  face  was 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     173 

Benched  in  tears,  but  so  unruffled  that  it  seemed  as 
if  no  accident  could  disturb  its  sweet  harmo 
nies.  "  You  put  me  in  mind,  Emilie,"  said  Ger 
trude,  kissing  her  cheek,  "  you  put  me  in  mind  of 
a  shower  when  the  sun  is  shining." 

Emilie  dashed  off  her  tears.  "  I  will  not  be 
miserable  any  longer  ;  would  you,  Gertrude  ?" 

"  No,  I  never  would  be  miserable  if  I  could  help 
it,  Emilie." 

"  It  is  too  disagreeable,"  replied  Emilie,  with 
perfect  naivete,  "  it  makes  one  feel  too  bad  ;  but 
I  really  have  enough  to  make  me  miserable.  If  I 
dared,  I  would  show  you  all  these  letters  ;  but, 
dear  Gertrude,  you  can  advise  me  without  knowing 
what  the  real  state  of  the  case  is,  only  that  papa  and 
mama  want  me  to  do  something  that  I  hate  to  do — 
that  I  would  rather  die  than  do.  Now  would  you 
do  it  if  you  were  I  f" 

Gertrude  did  not  need  second  sight  to  conjecture 
what  the  nature  of  this  parental  requisition  might  be. 
"  It  is  difficult  to  answer  your  question,  Emilie;  but 
there  are  things  that  it  is  not  right  to  do,  even  in 
compliance  with  parental  authority.  This  may  be 
one  of  them." 

"  Oh,  it  is,  I  am  sure.  You  have  divined  it 
most  certainly,  Gertrude ;  but  I  have  not  told  you 
a  word,  you  know.  Mama  charges  me  not  in  her 
letter.  I  am  so  glad  you  think  as  I  do  ;  but  I  am 
afraid  mama  will  persuade  me.  She  suffers  so 
much  when  any  thing  crosses  her.  If  she  could 
only  be  persuaded  to  think  as  I  do  about  it.  I 
have  written  a  letter  to  a  certain  person  who  has 
great  influence  over  her.  You  may  read  it,  Ger- 
15* 


174  CLARENCE ;    OR 

trude.     You  cannot  understand  it,  though  he  will. 
Read  it  aloud,  for  I  want  to  hear  how  it  sounds." 

Gertrude  read  aloud,  "  To  my  mother's  best  and 
dearest  friend." — "Your  father,  of  course?"  she 
said,  looking  up  a  little  perplexed  at  Emilie. 

Miss  Layton  blushed,  and  there  was  an  expres 
sion  of  acute  pain  passed  over  her  face,  as  she  said 
with  quivering  lips,  "  Oh  no,  Gertrude,  I  wish  it 
were  so  ;  but  perhaps  you  think  I  have  addressed  it 
improperly — if  you  do,  just  run  the  pen  through 
that  line."  Gertrude  did  so,  and  read  on,  "As 
•'  mama  has  told  me,  Mr.  Roscoe,  that  you  already 
•'  know  all  about  a  certain  affair,  I  trust  I  am  not 
i{  doing  wrong  in  begging  you  to  intercede  with 
"  rny  dear  mother  in  my  behalf.  Do  convince  her 
"that  it  is  not  my  duty  to  sacrifice  my  happiness  to 
k£  my  father's  wishes.  It  is  very  hard  to  make 
*c  one's  self  miserable  for  life,  and  is  it  not  an  odd  way 
•'  to  make  one's  parents  happy  ?  Papa  says  there  is 
"  no  use  in  being  romantic.  I  am  sure  I  am  not 
;{  so.  I  would  as  lief  marry  a  rich  man  as  a  poor  one* 
•'  if  I  loved  him.  Any  person,  however  romantic, 
"  might  love  Miss  Clarence,  in  spite  of  her  fortune. 
"  Therefore  it  is  not,  as  my  father  says,  an  absurd, 
"  girlish  notion  about  '  love  in  a  cottage,'  that  gives 

"  me  such  an  antipathy  to .     Do  intercede 

"  for  me,  if  I  have  not  made  an  improper  request, 
"  and  if  I  have,  forget  it,  and  remember  only  your 
"  friend,  E.  L."  Gertrude  laid  down  the  letter 
without  comment.  "It  is  a  very  poor  letter"  I 
know,  said  Emilie,  "  and  poorly  written,  for  I  blot 
ted  the  words  with  my  tears  as  fast  as  I  wrote 
them." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     175 

Gertrude  smiled  at  her  simplicity.  "  No,  Emilie, 
it  is  a  very  good  letter,  for  it  is  true  ;  and  truth 
from  such  a  heart  as  yours  is  always  good.  But 
would  it  not  be  best  to  burn  the  letter  ?  It  seems  to 
me  you  may  trust  to  your  own  representations  to 
your  mother.  No  intercessor  can  be  so  powerful 
as  her  tenderness  for  you." 

"  Oh,  Gertrude,  you  do  not  know  mama.  She 
can  talk  me  out  of  my  five  senses,  and  she  says  no 
body  in  the  world  has  such  influence  over  her  as 
Mr  .Roscoe."  On  second  thoughts,  Gertrude  be 
lieved  that  Emilie  might  need  a  sturdier  support 
than  her  own  yielding  temper,  and  she  acquiesced 
in  the  letter  being  sent;  and  Emilie  despatched  it. 
and  drove  from  her  heart  every  feeling  of  sorrow 
almost  as  easily  as  she  removed  its  traces  from  her 
heart's  bright  and  beautiful  mirror. 


170  CLARENCE;    OR 


CHAPTER  XIL 

'•'  1  will  tell  thee  a  similitude,  Esdras.  As  when  them  asketh  the 
earth,  it  shall  say  unto  thee  that  it  giveth  much  mould  whereof 
earthen  vessels  are  made,  but  little  dust  that  gold  cometh  of;  even 
so  is  the  course  of  this  present  world."  ESDRAS. 

MADAME  ROLAND  has  left  it  on  record — let  any 
woman  who  fancies  she  may  soar  above  the  natural 
sphere  of  her  sex,  remember  who  it  is  that  makes 
this  boast — that  she  never  neglected  the  details  of 
housewifery,  and  she  adds,  that  though  at  one  period 
of  her  life  she  had  been  at  the  head  of  a  laborious  and 
frugal  establishment,  and  at  another,  of  an  expensive 
and  complicated  one,  she  had  never  found  it  ne 
cessary  to  devote  more  than  two  hours  of  the  twenty- 
four  to  household  cares.  While  we  have  this  illus 
trious  woman  before  us,  as  evidence  in  the  case,  we 
would  venture  to  intimate,  in  opposition  to  the  vul 
gar  and  perhaps  too  lightly  received  opinion,  that 
talents  are  as  efficient  in  housewifery  as  in  every 
other  department  of  life  ;  and  that,  ceeteris  paribus, 
she  who  has  most  mind  will  best  administer  her  do 
mestic  affairs,  whether  her  condition  obliges  her? 
like  the  pattern  Jewish  matron,  to  '  rise  early  and 
work  diligently  with  her  own  hands,'  or  merely  to 
appoint  the  labors  of  others. 

If  our  opinion  be  not  heresy,  we  would  commend 
it  to  the  consideration  of  scholars,  and  men  of 
genius,  and  all  that  privileged  class,  (privileged  in. 
every  thing  else,)  who  have  been  supposed  to  be 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.      177 

condemned  by  their  own  elevation  to  choose  an  hum 
ble,  grubbing  companion  for  the  journey  of  life,  at 
best  not  superior  to  Johnson's  beau-ideal  of  a  fe 
male  travelling  companion. 

But  to  return  to  our  heroine.  Her  happy  geniu» 
had  rode  out  the  storm  threatened  in  the  morning, 
by  her  trusty  Becky,  and  she  saw  the  dinner  hour 
draw  nigh  with  a  tranquillity  that  can  only  be  in 
spired  by  the  delightful  certainty  that,  to  use  the 
technical  phrase,  all  is  going  on  well.  She  was  in 
the  parlor  with  Miss  Layton,  and  awaiting  her 
guests,  when  Judge  Upton,  who,  true  as  a  lover  to 
his  mistress,  never  broke  '  the  thousandth  part  of  a 
minute  in  the  affair'  of  a  dinner,  arrived.  After  the 
most  precise  salutations  to  each  and  all,  he  expressed 
his  great  satisfaction  in  being  punctual.  '  He  had 
done,  what  indeed  he  seldom  did,  risked  a  failure 
in  this  point.  He  must  own,  that  with  a  certain 
divine,  he  held  punctuality  to  be  the  next  virtue  to 
godliness  ;  but  it  had  been  impossible  for  him  to  dis 
pense  with  attending  the  funeral  of  general  Smith's 
lady.  The  general  expected  it ;  such  a  respectable 
person's  feelings  should  not  be  aggravated  on  so 
afflicting  an  occasion.  He  must  own  he  had  been 
uncommonly  gratified ;  the  general  behaved  so 
well ;  he  bore  his  loss  like  a  general.' 

Miss  Clarence  suppressed,  as  nearly  as  she  might, 
a  smile  at  the  conjugal  heroism  of  a  '  training-day' 
general,  and  asked  Mrs.  Upton  why  Mrs.  Layton 
was  not  with  her. 

Mrs.  Upton's  volubility,  which  had  emitted  in  lo\\ 
rumblings  such  tokens  of  her  presence,  as  are  heard 
from  a  bottle  of  beer  before  the  ejection  of  the  cork 
gives  full  vent  to  the  thin  potation,  now  overflowed 


178  CLARENCE;  OR 

"  Oh  my  dear,"  said  she,  "  Mrs.  Layton  chose 
to  come  on  horseback  with  Mr.  Edmund  Stuart, 
our  English  visiter.  Don't  be  frightened,  Emilie, 
dear,  husband's  horses  are  remarkably  gentle  ;  in 
deed  he  never  keeps  any  others,  for  he  thinks  dan 
gerous  horses  very  unsafe.  Oh,  Mr.  Clarence,  by 
the  way,  do  you  know  we  must  change  our  terms. 
Mr.  Stuart  says  that  it  is  quite  vulgar  in  England 
to  say,  we  ride,  when  we  go  in  a  carriage.  We 
must  call  a  ride  a  drive — only  think  !  He  says  we 
cannot  conceive  how  disagreeable  Americanisms  are 
to  English  ears." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Clarence,  who 
was  rather  sensitive  on  the  subject  of  Anglo-criti 
cism,  "  do  let  us  remember  that  in  America  we 
speak  to  American  ears,  and  if  any  terms  peculiar 
to  us  have  as  much  intrinsic  propriety  as  the  Eng 
lish,  let  us  have  the  independence  to  retain  them." 

"  Oh  !  certainly,  certainly,"  said  the  good  lady, 
who  had  no  thought  of  adventuring  in  the  thorny 
path  of  philological  discussion,  "  husband  says  he 
don't  see  why  ride  is  not  as  proper  as  drive,  espe 
cially  for  those  who  don't  drive.  But  girls,  I  must 
tell  you  before  Mr.  Stuart  comes,  that  he  is  remark 
ably  genteel  even  for  an  Englishman.  He  is  the  son 
of  Sir  William  Stuart,  and,  of  course,  you  know, 
will  be  a  lord  himself."  Our  republican  matron 
was  not  learned  in  the  laws  that  regulate  the  de 
scent  of  titles  ;  but,  in  blessed  unconsciousness  of 
her  ignorance,  she  proceeded  :  "  I  was  determined 
he  should  see  Clarenceville,  for,  as  husband  says,  it 
is  all  important  he  should  form  favorable  opinions 
of  our  country." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

*'  Why  important  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clarence,  in  one 
of  those  cold  and  posing  tones  that  would  have 
checked  a  less  determined  garrulity  than  Mrs.  Up 
ton's.  But  her  impetus  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted, 
and  on  she  blundered.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  ex 
actly,  but  it  is,  you  know.  He  is  to  pass  six 
months  in  the  United  States,  and  he  is  determined 
to  see  every  thing.  He  has  already  been  from 
Charleston  to  Boston.  Only  think,  as  husband 
says,  what  a  perfect  knowledge  he  will  have  of  the 
country." 

"  Does  he  propose,"  asked  Mr.  Clarence,  "  to 
enlighten  the  public  with  his  observations  ?" 

"  Write  a  book  of  travels,  you  mean,  sir  ?  Oh, 
I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  and  that  made  me  in  such  a 
fever  to  have  him  see  the  girls.  Girls,  you  must  be 
on  the  qui  vive  The  dinner  party  will  be  described 
at  full  length.  Your  dinners,  Gertrude,  are  always 
in  such  suberb  style.  Husband  told  Mr.  Stuart  he 
did  not  believe  they  were  surpassed  in  England." 
Gertrude  blushed  when  she  thought  of  the  disas 
ters  of  the  larder,  and  the  miscellaneous  dinner  pre 
ceded  by  such  a  silly  flourish  of  trumpets.  "  Oh, 
don't  be  alarmed,  Gertrude,  dear,"  continued  the 
good  lady,  «  1  am  sure  it  will  be  just  the  thing, 
and  then  you  know  a  beauty  and  a  fortune," 
glancing  her  little  glassy  eye,  with  ineffable  gratu- 
lation  from  Emilie,  to  Gertrude,  "  a  beauty  and  a 
fortune  will  give  the  party  such  eclat  !  Oh,  I 
should  have  given  up,  if  any  thing  had  happened 
to  prevent  our  coming.  The  children  gave  me 
such  a  fright  this  morning !  Thomas  Jefferson  fell 
down  stairs ;  but  he  is  a  peculiar  child  about  falling, 


180  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

always  comes  on  his  feet,  like  a  cat.  Benjamin 
Franklin  is  very  different.  He  has  never  had  but 
one  fall  in  his  life,  so  husband  calls  it  '  Ben's  fall,' 
like  '  Adam's  fall,'  you  know  ;  very  good,  is  not  it  ?" 
That  solemn,  responsible  person,  'husband,'  whose 
sententious  sayings  were  expanded  like  a  drop  of 
water  into  a  volume  of  steam,  by  that  wonderful 
engine,  his  wife's  tongue,  was  solemnly  parading  the 
piazza,  his  watch  in  his  hand,  and  his  eye  fixed  on 
the  avenue,  while  with  lengthening  visage  he  groaned 
in  spirit  under  that  misery  for  which  few  country 
gentlemen  have  one  drop  of  patience  in  their  souls 
— a  deferred  dinner. 

"  Oh,  there  they  come !"  he  was  the  first  to  an 
nounce,  and  after  the  slight  bustle  of  dismounting, 
&c.,  and  a  whisper  from  Mrs.  Upton  of  '  do  your 
prettiest,  girls,'  Mrs.  Layton  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  her  arm  in  Mr.  Stuart's,  who  with  his  hat 
under?  his  other  arm,  his  stiff  neckcloth,  and 
starched  demeanor,  looked  the  son  of  an  English 
baronet  at  least.  His  stately  perpendicularity  was 
the  more  striking,  contrasted  with  the  grace  and 
elasticity  of  Mrs.  Lay  ton's  movements.  This  lady 
"deserves  more  than  a  transient  glance. 

Mrs.  Layton  was  somewhere  on  that  most  disa 
greeable  stage  of  the  journey  of  life,  between  thirty 
and  forty — most  disagreeable  to  a  woman  who  has 
once  enjoyed  the  dominion  of  personal  beauty ;  for 
at  that  period  she  is  most  conscious  of  its  diminu 
tion.  If  ever  woman  might,  Mrs.  Layton  could 
have  dispensed  with  beauty,  for  she  had,  when  she 
pleased  to  command  them,  graceful  manners,  spirit 
ed  conversation,  and  those  little  feminine  engaging 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  181 

ways,  that  though  they  can  scarcely  be  defined  or 
described,  are  irresistibly  attractive.  But  never 
were  the  arts  that  prolong  beauty  more  sedulously 
studied  than  by  this  lady.  She  owed  much  to  the 
forbearance  of  nature,  who  seemed  to  shrink  from 
spoiling  what  she  had  so  exquisitely  made.  Her 
eyes  retained  the  clearness  and  sparkling  brilliancy 
of  her  freshest  youth.  Her  own  profuse,  dark 
hair  was  artfully  arranged  to  shelter  and  displa}- 
her  fine  intellectual  brow,  and  the  rose  on  her 
cheek,  if  too  mutable  for  nature,  claimed  indulgence 
for  the  exquisite  art  of  its  imitation.  She  was  yet 
within  the  customary  term  of  deep  mourning  for  a 
sister,  and  as  she  was  not  of  a  temper  to  crusade 
against  any  of  the  forms  of  society,  her  crape  and 
bombasin  were  in  accordance  with  its  sternest  re 
quisitions  ;  but  their  sombre  and  heavy  effect  was 
skilfully  relieved  by  brilliant  and  becoming  orna 
ments.  Like  the  Grecian  beauty  who  sacrificed  her 
tresses  at  her  sister's  tomb,  she  took  care  that  the 
pious  offering  should  not  diminish  the  effect  of  her 
charms.  Mrs.  Layton  resembled  a  Parisian  artifi 
cial  flower,  so  perfect  in  its  form,  coloring,  and  ar 
rangement,  that  it  seems  as  if  nothing  could  be  more 
beautiful,  unless  perchance  the  eye  falls  on  a  natural 
rose,  and  beholds  His  superior  and  divine  art  whose 
'pencil'  paints  it,  and  'whose  breath  perfumes,' 
Such  a  contrast  was  Emilie  Layton  to  her  mother. 
There  was  an  unstudied,  child-like  grace  in  every 
attitude  and  movement,  the  dew  of  youth  was  on 
her  bright  lip,  and  her  round  cheek  was  tinged 
with  every  passing  feeling. 

Mrs.  Layton  presented  her  English  acquaintance 

VOL.  I.  16 


182  CLARENCE;  OR 

to  Miss  Clarence  and  her  father,  and  returned  theis 
salutations  with  an  air  of  graceful  self-possession  that 
showed  she  was  far  too  experienced  to  feel  a  sensa 
tion  from  entering  a  country  drawing-room.  Her 
brow  contracted  for  an  instant  as  she  kissed  her 
daughter,  and  whispered,  "  I  see  you  are  going  to 
be  my  own  <3ear  girl,  Emilie."  Emilie  turned 
away,  and  her  mother's  scrutiny  was  averted  by  the 
outbreaking  of  Mrs.  Upton's  ever  ready  loquacity. 
"  Would  you  think,  Mr.  Clarence,"  she  asked, 
"  that  Grace  Lay  ton  and  I  were  girls  together.  I 
don't  deny  I  have  a  trifling  advantage  of  you, 
Grace,  dear  ;  but,  as  husband  says,  when  I  die,  you 
will  shake  in  your  shoes." 

"  Do,  Miss  Clarence,"  interposed  Mrs.  Layton, 
"  convince  our  friend  Mrs.  Uupton,  that  such  fa 
miliarity  with  time  is  quite  rustic  and  barbarous 
Time  is  as  obsolete  in  civilized  life  as  his  grim  per 
sonification  in  the  primer.  We  never  talk  of 
time  in  good  society,  Mrs.  Upton." 

"  Not  talk  of  time  !"  retorted  her  good-natured 
contemporary,  "  that's  odd  for  a  married  woman. 
Old  maids  are  always  particular  about  their  ages, 
but  it's  no  object  for  us  ;  besides,  as  husband  says, 
children  are  a  kind  of  mile-stones  that  measure  the 
distance  you  have  travelled.'  That  was  quite 
clever  of  husband — was  not  it  ?  Husband,"  she 
continued,  stretching  her  neck  out  of  the  window, 
and  addressing  her  better  half,  "  when  was  it  you 
made  that  smart  comparison,  of  children  to  mile 
stones  ?" 

"  Children  to  mile-stones !  what  are  you  talk 
ing  about,  my  dear  ?" 


A  TALE  OF  OTJR  OWN  TIMES.  183 

*'  Oh,  I  remember,  it  was  not  you — it  was" — but 
on  drawing  in  her  head  she  perceived  no  one  was 
listening  to  her.  Mrs.  Layton,  unable  as  she  con 
fessed,  any  longer  to  endure  the  odious  flapping  of 
time's  wings,  had  adroitly  turned  the  conversation. 
"  What  are  those  pictures  you  are  studying,  Mr. 
Stuart  ?"  she  asked. 

The  gentleman  colored  deeply,  and  replied, 
"  Some  American  representations  of  naval  engage 
ments,  madam." 

"  And  if  the  British  lion  were  the  painter  he  would 
have  reversed  the  victory  ?"  said  the  lady  archly. 

Miss  Clarence  felt  that  the  rites  of  hospitality  de 
manded  the  interposition  of  her  shield :  "  That 
picture,"  she  said,  "  does  not  harmonzie  well  with 
our  rural  scenery,  but  my  father  values  it  on  ac 
count  of  the  artist,  who  is  his  particular  friend." 

"  An  ingenious  young  person,  no  doubt,"  replied 
the  traveller,  with  an  equivocal  emphasis  on  the 
word  ingenious,  and  a  supercilious  curl  of  his  lip. 

"  Oh,  remarkably  ingenious,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Upton,  "by  the  way,  Gertrude,  dear,  where  is 
Louis  Seton  to-day  ?" 

"  Confined  to  his  room  by  indisposition,"  replied 
Miss  Clarence,  without  hesitation,  or  blushing. 

"  Hem — hem — hem" — thrice  repeated  the  vul 
gar  little  lady,  who  like  other  vulgar  people  thought 
the  intimation  of  something  particular  between  any 
marriageable  parties  always,  agreeable  to  a  young 
lady.  Miss  Clarence  looked  deaf,  and  Mrs.  Upton 
was  baffled  ;  but  she  good-humoredly  continued  "  I 
do  wish,  Mr.  Stuart,  you  could  have  ssen  the  young 
gentleman  who  painted  that  picture.  Husband 


184  CLARENCE;  OR 

thinks  him  an  uncommon  genius,  almost  equal  to 
that  celebrated  American  who  is  such  a  famous 
painter — I  forget  his  name — I  do  believe  husband 
is  right,  and  I  am  losing  my  memory  ;  but  at  any 
rate  I  remember  the  interesting  anecdote  about  him 
— I  forget  exactly  who  told  it  to  me,  but  I  believe  it 
was  husband — however,  that  is  of  no  consequence — 
yet  it  is  so  provoking  to  forget — if  I  could  only 
remember  when  I  heard  it." 

"Oh,  never  mind  when,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Layton. 
"  tell  the  story,  Mrs.  Upton.  We  shall  never  for 
get  when  we  heard  it." 

"  Well,  he  was  born — oh,  where  was  he  born : 
you  remember,  Gertrude,  dear  ?" 

"If you  mean  West,  I  believe  he  was  born  in 
Pennsylvania." 

Oh,  yes,  it  was  West ;  now  I  remember  all  about 
it — it  was  husband  told  me — his  parents  were 
wretchedly  poor  ;  wer'nt  they,  Gertrude,  dear  ?" 

"  Too  poor,  I  believe,  to  educate  him." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  that  is  just  what  husband  told  me — 
and  being  too  poor,  and  being  born,  as  it  were,  a 
painter,  he  invented  colors — or  brushes — which  was 
it,  Gertrude,  dear  ?" 

"  Neither,  I  believe,"  replied  Gertrude,  suppress 
ing  a  smile,  and  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  shelter 
Mrs.  Upton's  ignorance,  and  save  her  friends  from 
her  farther  garrulity,  she  proceeded  to  relate  the 
well  known  story  of  West  having  made  his  first 
brush  from  the  hairs  of  a  cat's  tail,  and  of  his 
having,  instructed  by  the  Indians,  compounded  his 
first  colors  from  the  vegetable  productions  of  the 
wilds  around  him.  Mr,  Stuart  took  out  his  tablet? 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  185 

apparently  to  note  down  the  particulars  Miss  Cla 
rence  had  related.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said, 
"  have  the  goodness  again,  Miss  Clarence,  to  tell 
me  the  name  of  the  painter  of  whom  you  spoke." 

"  West." 

"  West !   ah,  the  same  with  our  celebrated  artist." 

"  Is  there  an  English  artist  of  that  name  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Lay  ton,  with  seeming  good  faith. 

"Indeed  is  there,  madam,  an  exceeding  clever 
person  too,  Sir  Benjamin  West ;  his  name  is  known 
throughout  Europe,  though  it  may  not  have  reached 
America  yet,  owing  probably  to  the  ignorance  of 
the  fine  arts  here.  My  eldest  brother  received 
with  the  estate  two  of  his  finest  productions.  One 
of  the  happy  effects  of  our  law  of  entail,  is  that  it 
fosters  genius  by  preserving  in  families  the  chef 
d'oeuvres  of  the  arts.  It  is  much  to  be  regretted," 
he  continued  turning  to  Mr.  Clarence,  "  that  your 
legislators  have  deemed  this  law  of  primogeniture 
incompatible  with  your  republican  institutions.  It 
is  an  unfortunate  mistake,  which  will  for  ever  retard 
your  advance  in  the  sciences,  arts,  and  manners."* 

"  Do  manners  go  with  the  estate  ?  How  can 
tiiat  be  ?' '  asked  Mrs.  Upton  in  all  simplicity. 
Whatever  replies  to  this  question  might  have  been 
suggested  by  the  presence  of  the  unportionedyoungei: 
son,  they  were  suppressed  by  the  common  instincts 
of  good  breeding,  and  dinner  fortunately  being  an- 


*  There  may  appear  to  be  a  striking  coincidence  between  the 
opinions  of  our  traveller  and  those  announced  in  Captain  Basil 
Hall's  travels;  but  no  allusion  was  intended  to  those  volumes. 
This  chapter  was  written  a  year  before  their  appearance. 

16* 


186  CLARENCE;  OR 

nounced,  the  party  repaired  to  the  dining-room, 
where  we  shall  leave  them  to  the  levelling  process 
of  satisfying  appetites  whetted  to  their  keenest  edge 
by  an  hour's  delay  of  a  country  dinner.  Perhaps, 
in  confirmation  of  the  assertion  already  made  of 
Miss  Clarence'  housewifery,  it  should  be  stated, 
that  there  was  not  a  dish  on  table  of  which  Mrs. 
Upton  did  not  taste,  and  ask  a  receipt. 

The  dinner  being  over,  Mrs.  Layton,  evidently 
anxious  for  some  private  conversation  with  her 
daughter,  proposed  a  stroll  in  the  wood. 

She  arranged  the  party  according  to  her  own 
wishes.  "  Mr.  Clarence,"  she  said,  "  you  are,  I 
believe,  condemned  to  some  business  discussions 
with  the  judge.  Mrs.  Upton,  Miss  Clarence,  I  am 
sure,  will  give  you  a  quiet  seat  in  the  library,  and  her 
receipt  book.  Miss  Clarence,  you  will  do  Mr. 
Stuart  the  honor  to  point  out  to  him  the  beauties  of 
an  American  forest ;  and  Emilie  shall  be  my  Ari 
adne.  I  wish,"  she  added  in  a  voice  spoken  alone 
to  Miss  Lay  ton's  ear,  "  that  like  her  you  were 
dreaming  of  love." 

"  Pshaw  !  mother,"  replied  Emilie.  There  was 
nothing  in  her  words,  but  there  was  something  in 
her  manner  and  looks  that  abated  her  mother's 
hopes.  She  had,  however,  too  much  at  stake  to 
leave  any  art  untried  to  achieve  her  object ;  and 
when,  after  an  hour's  walk,  Miss  Clarence  again 
met  the  mother  and  daughter,  EmihVs  cheek  was 
flushed,  and  her  eyes  red  with  weeping.  Her  prac 
tised  mother  veiled  her  own  feelings,  and  inquired 
of  Mr.  Stuart,  with  as  much  carelessness  as  if  she 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     187 

had  thought  of  nothing  else  since  they  parted,  "  how 
he  liked  an  American  forest  ?" 

"  With  such  a  companion,"  he  replied,  courteously 
bowing  to  Miss  Clarence,  "  quite  agreeable,  but  in 
itself  monotonous." 

"A  quality,  I  presume,"  answered  Mrs.  Layton, 
"  peculiar  to  American  forests.  But,  my  dear  girls, 
where  are  you  going  ? — spare  me  a  little  longer 
from  the  din  of  Mrs.  Upton's  tongue.  I  had  as  lief 
be  doomed  to  turn  the  crank  of  a  hand-organ.  My 
dear  Miss  Clarence,  you  must  not  be  all  EmihVs 
friend.  Sit  down  on  this  rustic  bench  with  me,  and 
let  Emilie  show  Mr.  Stuart  the  pretty  points  of 
view  abuut  the  place.  He  has  come  forty  miles  to 
see  the  lake,  or  the  fair  lady  of  the  lake,"  she  whis 
pered,  as  the  gentleman  withdrew  with  Miss  Layton. 
"I  see  everywhere  about  your  place,  Miss  Cla 
rence,"  continued  Mrs.  Layton,  plucking  a  honey 
suckle  from  a  luxuriant  vine  that  embowered  the 
seat  where  she  had  placed  herself,  "  indications  of 
the  refinement  of  your  taste.  Flowers  have  always 
seemed  to  me  the  natural  allies  and  organs  of  a  deli 
cate  and  sensitive  spirit.  I  admire  the  oriental 
custom  of  eliciting  from  them  a  sort  of  hieroglyphic 
language,  to  express  the  inspirations  of  love — love. 
4  the  perfume  and  suppliance  of  a  moment,'  so  beau 
tifully  shadowed  forth  in  their  sweet  and  fleeting 
life.  I  see  you  do  not  agree  with  me." 

"  Not  entirely.  Flowers  have  always  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  vehicle  of  another  language  :  to  ex 
press  their  Creator's  love,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  his 
gracious  and  minute  attention  to  our  pleasures. 
Their  beauty,  their  variety,  their  fragrance,  are 


188  CLARENCE;  OR 

gratuities,  for  no  other  purpose,  as  far  as  we  can 
see,  but  to  gratify  our  senses,  and  through  those 
avenues  to  reach  the  mind,  that  by  their  ministry 
may  communicate  with  the  Giver.  To  me  the 
sight  of  a  flower  is  like  the  voice  of  a  friend.  You 
smile,  but  I  have  great  authority  on  my  side.  Why 
was  it,  that  the  French  heroine  arid  martyr  could 
exclaim,  *  J'oublie  1' injustice  des  hommes,  leurs  sot- 
tises,  et  mes  maux  avec  des  livres  et  des  fleurs,'  but 
because  they  conveyed  to  her  the  expression  of  a 
love  that  made  all  mortal  evils  appear  in  their 
actual  insignificance." 

"  Bless  me,  my  dear  Miss  Clarence !  how  seclusion 
in  a  romantic  country  does  lead  one  to  refine  and  spin 
out  pretty  little  cobweb  systems  of  one's  own.  Now 
my  inference  would  have  been  that  Madame  Roland's 
books  and  flowers  helped  her  to  forget  cabals  and 
guillotines,  and  perhaps  I  should  have  come  as  near 
the  truth  as  you.  You  are  a  very  Swedenbor- 
gian  in  your  exposition  of  nature.  However,  you 
have  no  mawkish,  parade  sentiment,  and  your  hid 
den  and  spiritual  meanings  certainly  exalt*  flowers 
above  mere  ministers  to  the  senses.  But  how  did 
we  fall  into  this  flourishing  talk  ?  I  detained  you 
here  to  make  a  confession  to  you," 

u  A  confession  to  me  !" 

"  Yes ;  you  know  I  told  you  you  must  be  my 
friend  as  well  as  Emilie's."  '  Ah,'  thought  Ger 
trude,  *  she  is  going  to  confide  to  me  poor  Emilie's 
affair.  I  will  have  the  boldness  to  give  her  my  real 
opinion.'  Mrs.  Layton  proceeded,  "  I  must  be 
frank  with  you,  Miss  Clarence' — frankness  is  my 
nature.  I  have  wronged  you." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  189 

"  Wronged  me,  Mrs.  Lay  ton  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  Miss  Clarence,  in  the  tenderest 
point  in  which  a  woman  can  be  injured  ;  but  do  not 
be  alarmed,  the  injury  is  not  irreparable.  You 
recollect  the  day  you  called  on  me  at  Mrs.  Upton's 
with  that  woe-begone,  love-stricken  devotee  of 
yours  f" 

"  Mr.  Seton  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Seton.  Now  spare  me  that  senti 
mental,  rebuking  look.  I  will  not  be  irreverent  to 
the  youth,  though  I  know  better  than  to  give  credit 
to  the  gossip  of  Goody  Upton,  and  her  cummers 
about  you.  His  love-passages,  poor  fellow,  will 
never  lead  to  your  hymeneal  altar.  But  to  my 
confession.  You  must  know  that  on  the  aforesaid 
day  I  had  a  fit  of  the  blues,  and  I  saw  every  thing, 
even  you,  through  a  murky  cloud.  To  speak  lite 
rally,  (ergo  disagreeably,)  I  did  not  perceive  one  of 
your  charms." 

"  Oh,  is  that  all,  Mrs.  Layton  ? — woman  as  I  am, 
I  can  pardon  that." 

"  All !  no,  if  it  were,  I  would  not  have  mentioned 
it,  for  one  woman's  opinion  of  another  is  a  mere  ba 
gatelle.  Idleness,  you  know,  is  the  parent  of  all . 
sin.  I  had  nothing  to  do,  and  moved  and  incited 
thereto  by  the  demon  of  ennui,  I  sat  down  and  de 
scribed  you  to  one  of  my  correspondents  as  you  had 
appeared  to  my  distempered  vision." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  all ;  but  that  you  may  know  the 
whole  head  and  front  of  my  offending  I  must  show 
you  my  cerrespondent's  reply." 

"  Do  so — that  may  make  a  merit  of  my  pardon.' ' 


190 


CLARENCE;  OR 


Mrs.  Layton  took  a  letter  from  her  reticule,  but 
before  she  opened  it  she  said,  "  I  must  premise  in 
my  own  justification,  not  to  conciliate  you,  that 
when  I  met  you  to-day  you  seemed  perfectly  trans 
formed  from  the  little  demure  lady  you  appeared  at 
first.  I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  known  you  a  year  and 
could  interpret  every  look  of  your  expressive  face. 
Something  had  happened  this  morning — I  am  sure 
of  it — to  give  a  certain  elevation  to  your  feelings.  I 
1  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident,  nor  Jove 
for  his  power  to  thunder.'  I  could  not  flatter yow,  Miss 
Clarence,  and  it  is  no  flattery  to  say  your  beauty  is 
of  that  character  which  Montesquieu  pronounces  the 
most  effective.  It  results  from  certain  changes  and 
flashes  of  expression — it  produces  the  emotion  of 
surprise.  When  you  speak  and  show  those  brilliant 
teeth  of  yours,  your  face  is  worth  all  the  rose  and 
lily  beauties  in  Christendom.  You  remind  me  of 
Gibbon's  description  of  Zenobia — do  you  remem 
ber  it  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  seldom  remember  a  description  of  per 
sonal  beauty." 

"  I  never  forget  it.  You  have  not  been  enough 
in  the  world  to  learn  that  beauty  is  the  sine  qua  non 
to  a  woman — a  young  woman— unless,  indeed,  she 
has  fortune." 

"  We  are  graduated  by  a  flattering  scale,  truly !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  girl>  but  you  may  as  well  know 
it ;  there  is  no  use  in  going  hoodwinked  into  socie 
ty  !  But  now  for  our  document."  Mrs.  Lay  ton 
unfolded  Gerald  Roscoe's  letter,  which  our  readers 
have  already  perused,  and  read  aloud  from  the  pas 
sage  beginning,  l  Is  it  natural  depravity,7  and  end- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     191 

ing  with  the  anecdote  of  Miss  Eunice  Peabody. 
When  she  had  finished  reading, '  a  comely  little  bo 
dy,  amiable  and  rather  clever,'  "  is  a  quotation  from 
my  letter,"  "she  said,  "  and  was  my  libellous  descrip 
tion  of  you,  Miss  Clarence." 

"  Libellous  !  Mrs  Lay  ton.  I  declare  to  you 
after  your  frightful  note  of  preparation  it  sounds 
to  me  quite  complimentary  ;  but  who  is  the  gentle 
man  to  whom  I  have  this  picturesque  introduction  ?" 

"  Ah  !  there 's  the  rub.  He  is  undoubtedly  the 
most  attractive  young  man  in  New  York — the  prince 
of  clever  fellows  ;  and,  honored  am  I  in  the  fact — 
my  selected,  and  favorite,  and  most  intimate  friend." 

*  Oh !'  thought  Gertrude,  '  Emilie  said  Roscoe 
was  her  mother's  most  intimate  friend,'  and  the  pang 
that  shot  through  her  heart  at  this  recollection  was 
evident  in  her  face,  for  Mrs.  Layton  paused  a  mo 
ment  before  she  added — "  Gerald  Roscoe."  At 
this  confirmation  of  her  mental  conjectnre,  Gertrude 
involuntarily  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and 
then,  disconcerted  to  the  last  degree  at  having  be 
trayed  her  sensations,  she  said,  half  articulate!}', 
something  of  her  being  taken  by  surprise  at  the 
mention  of  Gerald  Roscoe' s  name,  that  he  was  her 
father's  friend,  but  she  concluded  with  hoping  Mrs. 
Layton  would  not  think  she  cared  at  all  about  it. 
But  Mrs.  Layton  was  quite  too  keen  and  sagacious 
an  observer  to  be  imposed  on  for  a  moment  by  such 
awkward  hypocrisy  as  Gertrude's.  She  saw  she 
did  care  a  great  deal  about  it,  and  giving  a  feminine 
interpretation  to  her  emotion,  and  anxious  to  efface 
every  unpleasant  impression  from  her  mind,  she  said 
in  her  sweetest  manner,  "I  enjoy  in  anticipation 


192  CLARENCE;  OR 

Roscoe's  surprise  when  he  shall  see  you.  It  will  be 
quite  a  coup  de  theatre.  On  the  whole,  Gertrude — 
I  must  call  you  Gertrude — dear  Gertrude — I  think 
I  may  claim  to  have  done  you  a  favor.  I  have  pre 
pared  Roscoe's  mind  for  an  agreeable  surprise,  and 
for  the  still  more  agreeable  feeling  that  his  taste  is 
far  superior  to  mine — that  to  him  belongs  the  merit 
of  a  discoverer,  and  as  he  is  after  all  but  a  man,  he 
will  enjoy  this,  and  I  shall  enjoy  particularly  your 
triumph  over  his  first  impressions." 

*  Ah,'  thought  Gertrude,  «  those  impressions  will 
never  be  removed,  I  shall  be  paralyzed,  a  very  Eu 
nice  Peabody,  if  ever  I  meet  him.'  But  she  smiled 
at  Mrs.  Layton's  castle-building,  and  though  she 
assured  that  lady  that  nothing  was  more  improbable 
than  that  she  should  ever  encounter  Gerald  Roscoe, 
as  he  never  left  town,  and  she  never  went  there,  yet 
she  did  find  something  very  agreeable  in  Mrs.  Lay- 
ton's  perspective  ;  and  being  human  and  youthful,  she 
was  not  insensible  to  the  flatteries  addressed  to  her 
by  the  most  fascinating  woman  she  had  ever  seen. 

Mrs.  Layton's  expressions  of  admiration  were  not 
all  flattery.  There  was  something  in  Gertrude  that 
really  excited  her  imagination.  She  saw  she  was  of 
a  very  different  order  from  the  ordinary  run  of  well- 
bred,  well-informed,  decorous,  pleasing  young  la 
dies — a  class  particularly  repulsive  and  tiresome  to 
Airs.  Layton.  She  foresaw  that  Miss  Clarence,  far 
removed  as  she  was  from  being  a  beauty  would,  set 
off  by  the  eclat  of  fortune,  become  a  distingue  when 
ever  she  appeared  in  society,  and  she  took  such 
measures  to  ingratiate  herself  as  she  had  found  most 
generally  successful.  She  had  shown  Roscoe's  let- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  193 

vcr  to  manifest  and  enhance  the  value  of  her  changed 
opinion.  She  spared  no  pains  to  efface  the  impres 
sion  the  letter  evidently  left  on  Gertrude's  mind. 
She  taxed  all  her  arts  of  pleasing — talked  of  her 
self,  alluded  to  her  faults,  so  eloquently,  that  the 
manner  was  a  beautiful  drapery  that  covered  up  and 
concealed  the  matter.  She  spoke  with  generous 
confidence  of  the  adverse  circumstances  of  her  ma 
trimonial  destiny,  and  Gertrude,  in  her  simplicity, 
not  doubting  that  she  was  the  sole  depository  of  this 
revelation,  felt  a  secret  self-gratulation  in  the  quali 
ties  that  had  elicited  so  singular  a  trust,  and  the 
tenderest  sympathy  with  the  sufferer  of  unprovoked 
wrongs.  Then  Mrs.  Layton  again  reverted  to 
Roscoe,  the  person  of  all  others  of  whom  Gertrude 
was  most  curious  to  hear.  She  had  a  kind  of  dot 
and  line  art  in  sketching  characters,  and  with  a  few 
masterly  touches  presented  a  vivid  image.  She 
spoke  of  society ;  and  its  vanities,  excitements  and 
lollies,  like  bubbles  catching  the  sun's  rays,  kindled 
in  the  light  of  her  imagination. 

Gertrude  listened  and  felt  that  her  secluded  life 
was  a  paralyzed,  barren  existence.  Her  attention 
was  rivetted  and  delighted  till  they  were  both  arous 
ed  by  the  footsteps  of  a  servant,  who  came  to  say 
that  Judge  Upton's  carriage  was  at  the  door.  Half 
way  to  the  piazza  they  were  met  by  Mrs.  Upton. 
"  Gertrude,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  you  mil  ex 
cuse  our  going  rather  early.  You  know  I  am  an 
anxious  mother,  and  the  Judge  is  so  important  at 
home — but  we  have  had  a  charming  day  !  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Stuart  has  been  delighted.  I  asked  him  if 
he  had  ever  seen  any  thing  superior  to  Clarence- 

VOL.  I.  17 


194  CLARENCE;  oil 

vjlle  as  a  whole,  and  I  assure  you  he  did  not  say 
yes.  Indeed,  sub  rosa,  (you  understand,  between 
you  and  I,)  I  do  think  you  have  made  a  conquest." 

"  Do  not,  I  entreat  you,  Mrs.  Upton,  ask  the 
gentleman  whether  I  have  or  not." 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear  soul ;  do  you  think  I  would 
do  any  thing  so  out  of  the  way  ?  I  understand  a 
thing  or  two  ;  but  I  do  long  to  know  which  will 
carry  the  day,  you  or  Emilie — fortune  versus — 
as  husband  says — versus  beauty.  One  thing  I  am 
certain  of,  we  shall  all  be  in  the  book." 

"  Not  all,"  said  Mrs.  Layton,  and  added  in  a 
whisper  to  Gertrude,  "  who  but  Shakspeare  could 
have  delineated  Slender  ?" 

Gertrude  was  surprised  and  disappointed  at  find 
ing  Emilie  on  the  piazza,  prepared  to  return  with 
her  mother ;  but  there  was  no  opportunity  for  ex 
postulation.  Judge  Upton  stood  at  the  open  car 
riage  door,  as  impatient  as  if  a  council  of  war  were 
awaiting  his  arrival  at  home,  and  the  ladies  were 
compelled  to  abridge  their  adieus. 

When  Mr.  Clarence  had  made  his  last  bow  to 
his  departing  guests,  he  seated  himself  on  the 
piazza.  "  There  goes  our  English  visiter,  Ger 
trude,"  said  he,  "  enriched  no  doubt  with  precious 
morceaus  for  his  diary.  Judge  Upton  will  repre 
sent  the  class  of  American  country-gentlemen,  and 
his  miscellaneous  help-meet  will  sit  for  an  American 
lady.  I  heard  him  ask  Mrs.  Upton,  who  has,  it 
must  be  confessed,  an  anomalous  mode  of  assorting 
her  viands,"  (Mr.  Clarence  spoke  with  the  disgust 
of  a  dyspeptic  rather  than  a  Chesterfieldian,) 
•'  whether  it  were  common  for  the  Americans  to  eat 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     195 

« 

-salad  with  fish  ?  Notwithstanding  her  everlasting 
good  nature,  she  was  a  little  touched  at  his  surveil 
lance,  and  for  once  replied  without  her  prefix  '  hus 
band  says,'  that  she  supposed  we  had  a  right  to  eat 
such  things  together  as  pleased  us  best." 

"  It  is  unfortunate,"  said  Gertrude,  "  that  travel 
lers  should  fall  into  such  hands." 

"  No,  no,  Gertrude  ;  it  makes  no  difference  with 
such  travellers.  They  come  predetermined  to  find 
fault — to  measure  every  thing  they  see  by  the  Eng 
lish  standard  they  carry  in  their  minds,  and  which 
they  conceive  to  be  as  perfect  as  those  eternal  pat 
terns  after  which  some  ancient  philosophers  sup 
posed  the  Creator  to  have  fashioned  the  universe.  I 
had  a  good  deal  of  conversation  with  this  young 
man,  and  I  think  he  is  about  as  well  qualified  to  de 
scribe  our  country,  and  judge  of  its  real  condition, 
as  the  fish  are  to  pass  their  opinion  on  the  capaci 
ties  and  habitudes  of  the  birds.  I  do  not  mean 
that  ours  is  the  superior  condition,  but  that  we  are 
of  different  elements.  It  does  annoy  me,  I  confess, 
excessively,  that  such  fellows  should  influence  the 
minds  of  men.  I  do  not  care  so  mnch  about  the 
impression  they  make  in  their  own  country,  as  the 
effect  they  have  in  ours,  in  keeping  alive  jealousies, 
distrusts,  and  malignant  resentments,  and  stirring 
up  in  young  minds  a  keen  sense  of  injustice,  and  a 
feeling  of  dislike  bordering  on  hatred  to  England — 
England,  our  noble  mother  country.  I  would  have 
our  children  taught  to  regard  her  with  filial  venera 
tion — to  remember  that  their  fathers  participated  in 
her  high  historic  deeds — that  they  trod  the  same 
ground  and  breathed  the  same  air  with  Shakspeare, 


196 


CLARENCE ;    OR 


and  Milton,  and  Locke,  and  Bacon.  I  would  have 
them  esteem  England  as  first  in  science,  in  litera 
ture,  in  the  arts,  in  inventions,  in  philanthropy,  in 
whatever  elevates  and  refines  humanity.  I  would 
have  them  love  and  cherish  her  name,  and  remem 
ber  that  she  is  still  the  mother  and  sovereign  ot 
their  minds." 

"But  my  dear,  dear  father,  you  are  giving  Eng 
land  the  supremacy  and  preference  over  our  own 
country." 

"Our  country !  she  speaks  for  herself,  my  child ; 
if  there  were  not  a  voice  lifted  throughout  all  this 
wide  spread  land  of  peace  and  plenty,  yet  how  '  loud 
would  be  the  praise  !'  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  her 
flattered  by  foreigners,  or  boasted  or  lauded  by  our 
own  people.  Nor  do  I  fear,  on  her  account,  any 
thing  that  can  be  said  by  these  petty  tourists,  who, 
like  noisome  insects,  defile  the  fabric  they  canno? 
comprehend." 


A.  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  19' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

''•  Is  there  in  human  form  that  bears  a  heart  — 
A  wretch  !  a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and  truth  ! 

That  can  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring-  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting-  youth  ?" 

'    i*~  ' 

Gerald  Roscoe  to  Mrs.  Layton. 


"  ON  looking  over  your  letter  a  second  time,  my 
"  dear  Mrs.  Layton,  I  find  there  is  enough  of  it 
"  unanswered  to  give  me  a  pretence  for  addressing 
"you  again;  and  as  I  know  no  more  agreeable 
**  employment  of  one  of  my  many  leisure  hours 
*'  than  communicating  with  you,  I  will  contrast 
"  your  picture  of  the  miseries  of  rustic  hospitality 
"  and  rustic  habits,  with  the  trials  of  a  poor  devil, 
"  condemned  to  the  vulgarity  and  necessity  of  drag* 
"  ging  through  the  summer  months  in  town.  We 
"**  all  look  at  our  present,  petty  vexations,  through 
"  the  magnifying  end  of  the  glass,  and  then  turning 
"  our  instrument,  give  to  the  condition  of  others,  the 
•'  softness  and  enchantment  of  distance. 

11  But  to  my  picture.  Behold  me  then,  after 
;<  having  waited  through  the  day  in  my  clientless 
;i  office,  retired  to  my  humble  lodging,  No.  — 
"Walker-street,  in  a  garret  apartment,  (by  courtesy 
"  styled  the  attic,)  as  hot,  even  after  the  sun  is 
"  down,  as  a  well-heated  oven  when  the  fire  iswith- 
"  drawn,  or  as  hot  as  you  might  imagine  'accom- 
"  modations  for  a  single  gentleman'  in  tophet.  The 
17* 


198  CLARENCE;    OR 

"  room  is  fifteen  feet  square,  or  rather  the  floor, 
"  as  the  ceiling  descends  at  an  angle  of  forty-five 
"  degrees,  so  that  whenever  I  pass  the  centre  of  my 
"  apartment  I  am  compelled  to  a  perpetual  salam, 
"  or  to  having  my  head  organized  in  a  manner  that 
"  would  confound  the  metaphysical  materialism  of 
"  a  German. 

"  My  dear  mother,  nobly  as  she  has  conformed 
"  herself  to  our  fallen  fortunes,  has  not  yet  been  able 
"  to  dispense  with  certain  personal  refinements  for 
"  herself,  or  for  her  unworthy  son.  I  believe  in  my 
"  soul,  she  has  never  wafted  a  sigh  from  our  land- 
"  lady's  sordid  little  parlor  to  the  almost  forgotten 
"splendors  of  our  drawing-room;  but  there  is 
"  something  intolerably  offensive  to  her  habits  and 
"  tastes  in  the  arrangements  of  a  plebeian  bed-room. 
"  Accordingly  she  has  fitted  up  my  apartment  with 
"  what  she  considers  necessaries  ;  but  that  first  ne- 
"  cessity — that  chiefest  of  all  luxuries — space,  she 
"  cannot  command  ;  nor  can  all  her  ingenuity  over 
borne  the  principle  of  resistance  in  matter,  so  that 
"  my  *  indispensable'  furniture  limits  my  locomotive 
"  faculties  to  six  feet  by  four.  The  knocks  I  get 
"  in  any  one  day  against  my  bureaus,  writing- 
"  table,  book-case,  &c.,  would  convert  a  Berkleian 
"  philosopher. 

"  I  have  but  one  window,  an  offset  from  the  roof. 
"  to  which  my  dormant  ceiling  forms  a  covert  way* 
"  My  horizon  is  bounded  by  tiled  roofs  and  square 
"  chimneys.  No  graceful  outlines  of  foliage;  no 
"  broad  lake  to  sparkle  and  dimple  on  the  verge  of 
"  the  starry  canopy  ;  no  *  heaven-kissing  hill ;'  but 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     199 

4i  chimneys  and  roofs,   and  roofs  and  chimneys,  for 
"  one  who  counts  "it  high  pleasure  to  behold 


1  The  lofty  woods— the  forest  wide  and  long-, 

Adorn' d  with  leaves  and  branches  fresh  and  green. 
In  whose  cool  bowers  the  birds,  with  many  a  song-, 

Do  welcome  with  their  quire  the  summer's  queen  ; 
The  meadows  fair,  where  Flora's  gifts  among 

Are  inter  mix' d  with  verdant  grass  between ; 
The  silver  scaled  fish  that-softly  swim 

Within  the  sweet  brook's  crystal,  watry  stream.' 

"  These  are  the  sorrows  of  my  exile  from  nature 
uin  this  her  glorious  ascendant.  I  say  nothing, 
"  my  dear  Mrs.  L.,  of  being  chained  to  the  city. 
"  when  the  sweet  spirits  that  gave  it  life  are  fled, 
"In  short,  I  will  say  nothing  more  of  my  miseries 
"  and  privations.  I  will  even  confess  that  my  little 
"  cell  has  its  pleasures  ;  humble  though  they  be,  still 
"  they  are  pleasures.  I  do  not  mean  the  dreams 
"  and  visions  that  sport  about  the  brain  of  a  young 
"man  who  has  his  own  fortunes  to  carve  in  the 
"world,  and  who  of  course  indemnifies  himself  for 
"the  absolute  negation  of  his  present  condition  by 
"  the  brilliant  apparition  of  the- future.  It  is  well 
"  for  us  that  our  modesty  is  not  gauged  by  our  an- 
"  ticipations  !  My  humble  attic  pleasure  consists  in 
"  looking  down,  like  Don  Cleofas,  on  my  neigh- 
;<  bors — in  guessing  at  their  SgfrJt  and  history  from 
•l  their  outward  world.  You,  my  dear  madam, 

**  who  live  in  the  courtly  luxury  of street,  if 

u  your  eye  ever  glanced  through  your  curtained 
"  window  at  the  yards  of  your  neighbors,  would 
"  only  see  the  servile  labors  of  their  domestics. 
#  You  can  therefore  have  no  imagination  of  the 


'200  CLARENCE;  OR 

i{  revelations  of  life  to  my  eye.  A  curious  contrast 
"there  is  between  the  front  and  rear  of  these  esta- 
"  blishments  of  our  humble  citizens — -the  formal 
"  aspect  of  the  ambitious  front  parlor,  and  the  laisser 
"  oiler  style  of  the  back  apartments.  Suffer  me, 
"  in  this  dearth  of  parties,  operas,  and  whatever 
"  makes  an  accredited  drawing-room  topic,  to  in 
troduce  you  to  one  of  my  neighbors  and  his  l  petit 
•'  paradis?  for  so  Abeille  calls  and  considers  his 
"yard,  a  territory  of  about  thirty  feet  by  fourteen. 
•*  Poor  Abeille  ! — poor — what  can  make  a  French- 
• '  man  poor  ?  They  ride  through  life  on  the  '  virtu- 
"  oso's  saddle,  which  will  be  sure  to  amble  when 
"the  world  is  at  the  hardest  trot.'  They  have 
"  heaven's  charter  for  happiness. 

"  Abeille  was  a  seigneur  of  St.  Domingo,  and 
:<  possessed  one  of  the  richest  estates  of  that  Hes- 
•'  perian  island.  Did  you  never  observe  that  a 
"  Frenchman's  temperament  is  the  reverse  of  the 
•'  ungracious  state  that  '  never  is,  but  always  to  be 
"  blessed.'  Let  his  present  condition  be  abject  as  it 
i;  vrill,  he  has  been  blest.  Abeille  revels  now  in  the 
"  retrospective  glories  of  his  seigniory,  from  which 
"  the  poor  .fellow  was  happy  to  escape,  during  the 
"  troubles,  with  his  life,  his  family,  and  a  few  jew- 
"  els,  with  the  avails  of  which  he  has  since  purchased 
"  this  little  property  ^.and  a  scene  of  perfect  French 
"  happiness  it  is.  Abeille  has  two  lodgers,  an  old 
"  bachelor,  bitten  with  the  mania  of  learning  French, 
i{  and  a  clerk  qualifying  himself  for  a  supercargo. 
"  He  teaches  young  ladies  to  paint  flowers.  His 
"pretty  daughters,  Felicite  and  Angelique,  embroi- 
'*  der  muslin  and  weave  lace,  and  by  these  mean?, 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  201 

4 'and  the  infinite  ingenuity  of  a  French  menage 
"  they  contrive  to  live  in  independence,  and  so  far 
"  from  any  vain  misery  about  their  past  magnifi- 
"  cence,  it  seems  merely  to  cast  a  vivid  hue — a  sort 
"  of  sunset  glory  over  their  present  mediocrity. 

"  Abeille's  little  parterre  gives  him  far  more 
"pleasure,  he  confesses,  than  he  ever  received 
"  from  his  West-India  plantation.  This  parterre  is 
"the  triumph  of  taste  over  expense.  He  has 
"  covered  with  a  trellis  a  vile  one  story  back-build- 
"  ing,  that  protrudes  its  hideous  form  the  whole  length 
' '  of  the  yard,  and  conducted  over  it  a  grape-vine,  that 
"  yields  fruit  as  delicious  and  plentiful  as  if  it  grew 
"  in  sunny  France.  The  high  board-fence,  over 
"  which  once  flaunted  a  vulgar  creeper,  is  now  em- 
"  bossed  with  a  multi-flora.  In  the  angle  of  the 
"  yard  next  the  house,  and  concealing  with  exquisite 
"  art  an  ugly  indentation  of  the  wall,  is  a  moss-rose, 
"  Abeille's  chefcPceuvre.  This  he  has  fed,  watered, 
"  pruned,  and  in  every  way  cherished,  till  it  has 
"surmounted  the  fence;  and  to-day  I  saw  him 
"  gazing  at  a  cluster  of  buds  on  the  very  summit,  as 
"  a  victor  would  have  looked  on  his  laurel-crown.  At 
"  the  extremity  of  the  yard  is  a  series  of  shelves  ar- 
il  ranged  like  the  benches  of  an  ampitheatre,  (mark 
;<  the  economy  of  space  and  sunshine  !)  filled  with 
"  pots  containing  the  finest  flowers  of  all  seasons. 
"  The  back  windows  are  festooned,  not  screened— 
"  a  Frenchman  never  blinds  his  windows — with 
"  honeysuckles,  coquetting  their  way  to  two  bird 
"  cages,  where,  embowered  and  perfumed,  are 
<{  perched  canaries  and  mocking-birds,  who  enjoy 


202  CLARENCE;  OR 

"  here  every  sweet  in  nature  but  liberty,  and  the 
"  little  servile  rogues  sing  as  if  they  had  forgotten 
"  that ;  and  to  finish  all,  the  few  unoccupied  feet  of 
"  the  ' petit paradisj  just  leaving  space  for  Abeille 
"to  meander  among  the  flowers,  are  set  with  me- 
"dallions  of  carnations,  tulips,  hyacinths,  and  mig- 
"  nonette.  I  must  not  omit  the  tame  crow,  Abeille's 
"  esquire,  who  follows  him  like  his  shadow,  and 
u  madame's  pets  and  darlings,  an  enormous  parrot, 
"  the  most  accomplished  of  his  tribe — a  Mathews 
"  among  parrots — and  the  largest  and  ugliest  shock 
"  that  ever  lay  in  a  Frenchwoman's  lap.  There  sits 
"  madame,  at  this  moment,  coquetting  with  the  par- 
"  rot,  scolding  Belle,  and  taking  snuff,  her  only 
"  occupations  in  life.  <  Pauvre  femme,'  Abeille 
"  says,  *  elle  ne  sait  pas  travailler — toutes  lesfemmes 
"  de  St.  Domingue  sont  ainsi  paresseuses,  mais, 
"  elle  est  si  bonne,  si  ceconome,  et  si  fidelle  !' 
s<  '  Pauvre  femme'  indeed  !  Abeille  looks  at  her 
"  through  the  vista  of  long  past  time,  or  he  would 
"  not  account  the  latter  quality  such  a  virtue.  But 
"  if  madame  does  not,  her  pretty  daughters  do 
"  know  how  to  work.  Felicite  wrought  herself  into 
"  the  heart  of  a  youth,  who  in  spite  of  her  poverty, 
"  and  in  spite  of  the  Yankee  prejudice  of  all  his  kin- 
"  dred  against  a  French  girl,  married  her,  and  toiled 
"  hard  to  support  her,  when  last  week,  like  the  gifts 
"  of  a  fairy  tale,  came  a  rich  legacy  to  Felicite  from 
"  Port-au-Prince,  the  bequest  of  a  ci-devant  slave. 
"  Never  were  people  happier.  I  see  them  now 
"  prettily  grouped  at  their  chamber-window,  Felicite 
"  leaning  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  and  playing 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

"  bopeep  with  her  child,  the  child  in  the  arms  of  her 
*;  old  maiden  aunt  'Eli,  who  has  forgotten  to  put  on 
•;  her  false  curls,  even  forgotten  her  matin  mass 
"  ever  since  this  bantling  came  into  the  world.  So 
"  easy  is  it,  my  dear  Mrs.  Layton,  for  the  affections 
a  of  your  sex  to  revert  to  their  natural  and  happiest 
"  channel. 

"  But  the  prettiest  flower  of  my  neighbor's  gar- 
>;  den,  the  genius  loci  of  his  petit  paradis,  is  An- 
•'  gelique.  She  is  much  younger  than  her  sister. 
"  From  my  observations  from  winter  to  summer  for 
•'  the  last  three  years,  I  take  it  she  is  about  the 
;'  poetic  age  of  seventeen. 

"  With  all  the  facilities  of  my  observatory,  and 
•'the  advantage  of  occasional  explanatory  notes 
"  from  Abeille,  I  am  extremely  puzzled  by  Ange- 
u  lique.  During  the  past  winter,  I  used  every  eve- 
;<  ning  to  see  her,  the  very  soul  of  gaiety,  at  the 
;'  little  reunions  at  her  father's.  Her  sylph-like 
' '  figure  was  always  flitting  over  the  floor.*  ,She  danced 
"  with  her  father's  old  French  friends,  and  frolicked 
16  with  the  children,  the  veriest  romp  and  trickster 
;;  among  them.  She  would  sew  the  skirts  of  pere 
"  Bailie's  coat  to  old  'Eli's  gown ;  drop  icicles  un- 
•'  der  the  boys'  collars,  and  play  off  on  all,  young 
•'  and  old,  her  feats  of  fearless  frolic.  As  the  spring 
•'  opened,  I  heard  her  sweet  voice  outsinging  the 
"  birds,  her  light  heart  seemed  instinctively  to  echo 
"  their  joyous  notes ;  and  many  a  time  have  I 
"  thrown  down  my  book,  and  involuntarily  respond- 
i{  ed  to  her  merry  peals  of  laughter.  Soon  after 
"  this  there  was  a  sudden  transition  from  the  gay 
;<  temper  of  the  girl  to  the  elaborate  arts  of  the 


204  CLARENCE;  OR 

''young  lady.  She  dressed  ambitiously,  alway? 
"  with  exquisite  taste,  as  if  she  had  studied  her  fa- 
' l  ther's  flowers  for  the  harmony  of  colors,  but  with 
u  a  restless  vanity  and  expense  that  seemed  the  out- 
"  breaking  of  her  West-India  nature.  A  few  weeks 
u  since  she  had  the  fever  of  sentiment  upon  her — 
k<  would  sit  whole  evenings  by  her  window  alone, 
•'  and  sang  more  plaintive  ditties  than  I  supposed 
•'  there  were  in  the  French  language.  Now  she 
•'  sings  nothing,  gay  or  sad,  but  sits  all  day  over 
"  her  lace  without  raising  her  eyes.  Her  face  is  so 
u  pale  and  pensive  that  I  fancy,  even  at  this  dis- 
"  tance,  I  see  the  tears  dropping  on  her  work. 

"  Her  father  called  me  to  the  fence  to-day  to  give 
u  me  a  carnation.  I  remarked  to  him,  that  made- 
"  moiselle  was  too  constantly  at  her  work.  '  Yes,' 
u  he  said,  '  but  she  will  work  and  she  is  so 
11  triste,  Monsieur  Roscoe.  Sacristie  !  we  are  all 
"  triste,  when  Angelique  will  not  smile.'  '  Ah  ! 
k'  monsieur,,  mon  coeur  pleure.'  I  felt  a  sort  of 
"  shivering  as  if  a  storm  were  gathering  over  this 
*'  sunny  spot.  Heaven  grant  that  this  little  hum- 
"  ble  paradis  may  not  be  infested  by  evil  spirits. 
"  Do  not,  my  dear  Mrs.  Layton.  give  the  reins  to 
•'  your  feminine  fancy.  My  interest  in  Angelique 
u  is  all  '  en  philosophe^  or  if  you  please,  *  en  phi- 
a  lanthropiste  ;'  a  little  softer  and  deepe*-  it  may  be, 
"  than  'Eli  or  even  Felicite,  or  any  less  beautiful 
•'  than  Angelique  could  excite." 

"  I  left  my  letter  last  evening  and  strolled  down 
-'to  the  Battery.  It  should  have  been  a  moon- 
•'  light  night  but  the  clouds  had  interposed,  and  the 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  205 

;;  few  loiterers  that  remained  there  chose  the  broad 
i{  walk  at  the  water' s-side.  I  saw  an  acquaint- 
;*  ance  whom  I  was  in  no  humor  to  join,  and  I 
*'  retired  td  a  more  secluded  walk,  where  I  encoun- 
•'  tered  a  pair  who  had  evidently  gone  thereto  avoid 
"  observers,  for  on  seeing  me  approach  they  turned 
;{  abruptly  and  departed.  Soon  after,  in  going 
4t  up  Broadway,  I  met  the  same  couple.  The} 
;{ were  just  separating ;  the  lady  came  towards 
a  me  ;  she  was  shawled  and  veiled,  but  as  I  was 
"  passing  her,  her  veil  caught  in  the  railing  of  an 
:*  area  and  her  face  was  exposed.  It  was,  as  I  had 
;£  conjectured,  Angelique.  I  walked  on  withoii; 
a  seeming  to  notice  her,  and  I  perceived  that  her 
•'  attendant  had  turned  and  was  hastily  retracing  hi 
•'  steps  after  her.  I  cast  a  scrutinizing  glance  at 
•'  him,  and  though  his  hat  was  drawn  close  over  hi- 
;{  eyes,  and  he  held  his  handkerchief  to  his  face,  I 
"  believed  then,  and  still  believe,  he  was  Pedritto  i 
"  He  has  a  certain  gait  and  air  that  cannot  be  mk 
"  taken,  and  though  he  had  not  on  the  famoti- 
"  Spanish  identifying  cloak  that  you  used  to  sa\ 
;'  was  managed  more  gracefully  than  any  other  in 
•'  Broadway,  yet  I  am  sure  I  am  right  in  my  conjer 
-£  ture.  If  I  am,  *  curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !' "' 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Lay  ton  : — My  letter  had  swollen 
"  to  such  an  unreasonable  bulk  that  I  threw  it  asitk 
•'  as  not  worth  the  postage.     But  some  facts  havim-: 
"  come  to  my  ear  which  have  made  me  give  unwil:1 
:c  ing  credence  to  the  possibility  that  you  may  be  in 
"  duced  to  favor  Pedrillo's  suit  to  Emilie,  I  have 
-(  determined  to  communicate  certain  particulars  lii 

Vox,  I.  18 


206  CLARENCE;  OR 

''  you,  that  I  think  will  influence  your  opinion  of 
"  this  gentleman. 

"  The  evening  after  the  encounter  with  Pedrillo 
;'  I  have  already  mentioned,  I  was  returning  late  to 
"  my  lodgings — there  should  have  been  a  waning 
"  moon  to  light  the  city,  but  the  heavens  were  over- 
"  cast,  one  of  the  possible  vicisitudes  of  weather, 
"  which,  (if  we  may  judge  from  the  economy  of  lamp- 
<:  oil,)  is  not  anticipated  by  our  corporation.  The 
"  night  was  dark  and  drizzling.  It  was  past  one 
"  o'clock.  I  was  musing  on  the  profound  stillness — 
"  what  stillness  is  so  eloquent  as  that  of  a  populous 
"  city  ? — and  in  part  confused  by  the  darkness,  I 
"  turned  down  Wlute  instead  of  Walker  street.  I 
"  did  not  perceive  my  mistake  till  I  had  made  some 
"  progress,  and  then  my  attention  was  attracted  by 
"  a  carriage  drawn  up  close  to  the  flagging  ;  the 
"  steps  were  down,  the  door  open,  and  the  coach- 
"  man  on  his  box.  There  was  no  light  from 
"  the  adjoining  houses ;  no  sound,  no  indication 
"  of  any  kind  that  a  creature  was  awake  there. 
a  I  thought  the  poor  devil  of  a  coachman  over- 
*f  wearied  had  fallen  asleep  on  his  box,  and  I  stop- 
'*  ped  with  the  intention  of  waking  him,  when  I 
"  heard  three  low  notes  whistled  by  some  person 
"  a  few  doors  in  advance  of  me,  and  directly  half 
J'  the  blind  of  a  parlor  window  was  opened,  and  by 
"  the  faint  light  that  penetrated  the  misty  atmos- 
"  phere,  I  perceived  a  man's  figure  before  the  win- 
"  dow  of  Abeille's  house.  Imperfect  and  varying 
"  as  the  light  was,  I  saw  the  person  was  addressing 
"  imploring  and  impatient  gestures  to  some  one 
"  within.  My  first  impulse  was  that  natural  to  a 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     207 

"  mind  of  common  manliness  and  delicacy,  to  avoid 
"  any  interference  with  the  secret  purposes  of  an- 
"  other,  and  I  crossed  the  street,  designing  to  pass 
"  immediately  down  on  the  other  side.  But  as  the 
il  purpose  of  this  untimely  visit  flashed  upon  my 
*'  mind,  I  felt  that  there  was  something  cowardly  in 
"  my  retreat.  It  might  be  possible,  even  at  this 
u  late  moment  to  save  the  infirm  Angelique  (for 
"  I  had  truly  divined  the  actors  in  the  scene)  from 
"  the  power  of  the  villain  Pedrillo.  I  was  forti- 
"  fied  in  my  hope  when  1  saw  Angelique,  in  the 
11  act  of  putting  her  hat  on  her  head,  throw  if 
ufrom  her,  and  cautiously  raise  the  window-sash. 
"  She  spoke  to  Pedrillo,  but  in  so  low  a  voice  that 
"  I  only  caught  a  few  words.  Something  she  said 
*'  of  her  mother  being  sick.  That  she  faltered  in 
44  her  purpose  of  quitting  the  paternal  roof  was  plain 
**  from  Pedrillo's  vehement  gestures,  and  from  the 
i:  agony  of  indecision  with  which  she  paced  the 
"  room,  wringing  her  hands,  and  balancing,  no 
il  doubt,  the  pleadings  of  honor  and  filial  duty, 
"  against  the  passionate  persuasions  of  her  lover. 

"  I  too  thought  of  poor  Abeille — the  fond  old 
"  father — of  his  '  petit  paradisj  and  his  cheerful  and 
*c  grateful  enjoyment  of  the  wreck  of  his  splendid 
14  fortune,  and  of  this  his  loveliest  flower  trampled  in 
"  the  dust.  Images  of  the  ruin  and  desolation  that 
•'  awaited  the  amiable  Frenchman  nerved  my  reso- 
•'  lution,  and  the  possibility  that  I  might  avert  the 
u  instant  danger,  made  my  heart  thrab  as  if  my  own 
"  dearest  treasure  were  in  jeopardy.  What,  thought 
"  I,  ought  I  to  do?  What  can  I  do,  to  counteract 
ifone  who  has  so  far  succeeded  in  his  purposes? 


208  CLARENCE;  OR 

"  I  may  alarm  the  neighbors  by  m}'  outcries,  and 
;t  rouse  Abeille,  but  the  wretch  will  escape  with  his 
"  prey,  before  he  can  be  intercepted :  or,  at  best, 
''Angelique  will  be  disgraced  by  the  exposure  ol' 
"  her  intentions.  Thus  puzzled,  I  ceased  to  measure 
<{  obstacles,  dismissed  all  calculations,  and  just  fol- 
"  lowed  the  impulse  and  guidance  of  my  feelings, 
"  I  advanced  with  cautious  foot-steps  towards 
"  Abeille's  door-step.  Pedrillo  was  already  on  it. 
:'  and  as  yet  unaware  of  my  proximity. 

"  The  light  moved  from  the  parlor,  and  flashed 
"  through  the  fan-light  above  the  street-door.  An- 
"  gelique  had  then  decided  her  fate.  There  was 
"  another  pause  in  her  movement.  I  was  now 
"  so  near  to  Pedrillo  that  I  heard  him  breathe 
"  through  his  shut  teeth,  '  Ye  furies  !  why  does 
"not  she  open  the  door?'  and  as  if  answering 
"  to  his  words,  Angelique  gave  audible  tokens 
"  of  her  decision.  The  bolts  were  slowly  with- 
;c  drawn,  the  door  opened,  and  Pedrillo  sprang 
il  forward  to  receive  his  prize,  when  with  one  arm 
"  I  hurled  him  back.  I  know  not  how  far  he  fell. 
"  nor  where,  I  had  no  time  to  give  him  one  glance  ; 
"  with  my  other  arm  I  had  grasped  Angelique,  and 
<{  dragging  her  within  the  door,  I  instantly  reclosed 
"  and  rebolted  it. 

"  I  never  shall  forget,  and  I  am  sure  I  can  never 
"  describe,  Angelique's  first  look  of  terror,  astonish- 
"  ment,  and  inquiry,  and  the  overwhelming  shame 
"  with  which  she  dropped  her  head  on  her  bosom , 
•'when  she  recognised  me.  Fortunately  she  did 
"  not  speak.  I  listened  intently  for  some  indiea 


A  TALE  OF  OUH  OWN  TIMES.  209 

•  tion  of  our  baffled  knight's  intentions,  at  this  un- 
il  expected  turn  in  his  affairs.  I  heard  nothing  till 
"  the  sound  of  the  retiring  carriage-wheels  proved 
"  that  he  had  retreated.  I  then  graced  myself  with  an 
"  apology  to  Angelique.  I  am  not  sure  that  she  was 
"  not,  when  her  first  surprise  was  over,  a  little  vexed 
"with  my  interference,  but  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to 
"  give  a  better  direction  to  her  feelings,  and  with- 
:<  out  preaching  about  her  duties,  or  dictating  them, 
"  I  set  before  her  such  a  picture  of  her  fond  old  fa- 
< '  ther,  that  her  tender  heart  returned  to  its  loyalty 
"  to  him,  to  duty,  and  to  happiness,  and  shuddering 
"  at  the  precipice  from  which  she  had  escaped,  she 
"  most  solemnly  vowed  for  ever  to  renounce,  and 
;{  shun  Pedrillo. 

"  That  it  is  better  to  save  than  to  destroy,  no  one 
"  will  dispute.  I  believe  it  is  easier — far  easier  to  per- 
t£  suade  the  infirm  to  virtue  than  to  vice.  There  is  an 
"  unbroken  chord  in  every  human  heart,  that  vibrates 
"  to  the  voice  of  truth.  There  is  there  an  undying 
•'  spark  from  the  altar  of  God,  that  may  be  kindled 
"  to. a  flame  by  the  breath  of  virtue.  If  we  felt  this 
i;  truth  more  deeply,  we  should  not  be  so  reckless  of 
"  the  happiness  of  our  fellow-beings,  and  so  negli- 
:'  gent  of  any  means  we  may  possess  of  cherishing 
"  and  stimulating  their  virtue. 

"  I  did  not  embarrass  Angelique  with  my  pre~ 
•'sence  one  moment  after  I  was  assured  that  her 
"  right  resolution  was  fixed  ;  but  I  hesitated  whether 
"  to  retire  through  Abeille's  yard  to  my  lodgings, 
u  or  to  go  into  the  street,  where  Pedrillo  might  pos- 
"  sibly  still  be  lurking.  I  wished  that,  if  possible, 
"  he  should  think  Angelique  had  been  rescued  b> 
18* 


CLARENCE;    OR 

"  some  one  who  had  a  natural  right  to  interpose  in 
"  her  behalf.  But  as  I  thought  there  was  little 
"  chance  of  encountering  him,  and  as  I  had  knocked 
i{  off  my  hat  in  entering  the  house,  I  withdrew  that 
"  way  in  the  hope  of  finding  it.  I  did  not ;  and  I 
"have  since  suspected  that  Pedrillo  ascertained  my 
"  name  from  it,  for  I  have  met  him  once  since,  and 
"  I  thought  his  face  flushed  and  his  brow  lowered 
4i  as  he  passed  me. 

"  Now,  my  dear  Mrs.  Lay  ton,  have  I  not  by 

u  giving  you  a  true  account  of  the  sober  part  I 

"  played  in  this  little  drama,  proved  to  you  my  dis- 

"  belief  in  the   slander  that  claims  the  paramount 

"favor  of  your  sex  for  men  a  bonnes  fortunes? 

"  However,  to  confess  the  truth,  my  motive  in  the 

"  communication  was  quite  foreign  to  myself;  but 

"I  must  indulge  my  egotism  by  relating  my  own 

;{part   in   the   characteristic  finishing   of  the  tale. 

"  Old  Abeille  came  to  my  room  this  morning  with 

J<  a  note  from  Angelique.     She  informed  me  that 

44  her  poor  mother  had  just  died ;  that  she  had  be- 

"  stowed   '  such  praise'   on  her  when  she  gave  her 

;'her  last  blessing.     *  The  praise,'   she  said,  'she 

i(  had  not- deserved  by  her  virtue,  she  would  by  her 

"  penitence,  and  she  had  fallen  on  her  knees  and 

"•  confessed  all  to  her  mother  ;  and  her  mother  had 

"  then  blessed  her  more  fervently  than  ever,  and 

"  blessed  Monsieur  Roscoe,  both  in  one  breath.  And 

"if  the  prayer  of  the  dying  was  heard,'  adds  Ange- 

"  lique,  '  no  trouble  nor  sin  will  ever  come  nigh  to 

"  Monsieur    Roscoe,   nor  to  any  thing  Monsieur 

4 1  loves.'     Her  note  concludes  with  the  information 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  11 

"  that  she  is  going  to  the  convent  at  Baltimore  ;  to 

i 'pray  to   God  and  make   penitence  for  a  little 

"  while.1     It  was  evident  the  old  man  had  a  burden 

"  on  his  heart  that  could  only  be  relieved  by  words  ; 

**  but  there  are  feelings  of  a  nature  and  force  to 

u  check  the  fluency  even   of  a   Frenchman ;  and 

"  Abeille  was  mute,  save  in  the  eloquence  of  tears. 

"  He  took  out  his  snuff-box,  which  serves  him  on  all 

"  occasions  as  a  link  to  mend  the  broken  chain  of 

"  his  ideas;  but  now  it  would  not  do.     I  had  not 

"  yet  read  Angelique's  note,  and  I  naturally  referred 

"  his  emotion  to  the  death   of  his  wife,  to  which  I 

"  adverted  in  a  tone  of  condolence.     "  Ah,  'tis  not 

"  that,  Monsieur  Roscoe,'  he  said,  *  il  faut  mourir — 

"  and  my  wife — pauvre  femme  ! — was  good  to  die. 

"  Certainement  c'est  un  grand  malheur  ;  but  every 

•"  body  can  speak  of  his  wife's  death — but,  sacristie ! 

"  when  1  think  of  that,  my  tongue  will  not  move, 

"  though  my  heart  is  full  of  gratitude  to  you,  Mon- 

"  sieur  Roscoe.     Ah,  you  have  saved  us  all,  et  de 

•'  quelle  horreur  !'     Here  Abeille  burst  into  a  fresh 

•"  floodof  tears,  and  again  had  recourse  to  his  snuff-box. 

"  I  could  no  longer  appear  ignorant  of  his  meaning. 

»' '  My  good  friend,'  said  I,  '  I  understand  you  per- 

41  fectly ;  but  this  is  not  a  subject  to  talk  about.  Let  me 

•'  only  say  to  you,  that  Angelique  was  even  more 

"  ready  to  spring  from  the  toils  than  I  was  to  extri- 

"  cate  her.'     *  Ah,  Dieu  soitbeni — veritablement — 

-"  elle  est   un  ange.     Ah,  Monsieur  Roscoe,  you 

41  have   said   that   good   word   of  ma  petite  pour 

"  m'encourager.     Vous  savez,'   he  continued,  for 

*•  np\v  he  ,h.ad  recovered  all  his  volubility,  *  vpus 


CLARENCE;  OR 

"  savez  quelle  est  belle — la  reine  de  toutes  mes 
;£  fleurs — ah!  n'est  ce  pas,  Monsieur — and  she  is 
"  always  so  douce  et  gaie — si  gaie — toujours — 
"  toujours — and  now,  Monsieur  Roscoe,  we  must 
"  speak  English ;  that  always  have  a  very  plain  mean- 
"  ing.  My  claim  on  my  country  is  partly  allowed, 
"  and  1  have  received  fifty  thousand  francs.  Now  I  do 
"  not  want  this  money ;  I  am  very  happy,  and  my 
•'  poor  girl  shall  have  it  all — ten  thousand  dollars — 
"  and  when  she  has  made  her  penitence  you  shall 
"  have  her  hand,  Monsieur  Roscoe,  and  all  the 
<l  money  in  it.  Ah,  do  not  speak — vous  le  meritez/ 
"  I  certainly  was  not  prepared  to  reply  to  so  un- 
"  expected  an  expression  of  Abeille's  gratitude. 
"However,  I  had  frankness  enough  to  say  that 
"  marriage  must  be  an  affair  of  the  heart  entirely. 
"  '  You,'  I  said,  '  my  friend  Abeille,  cannot  answer 
"  for  Angelique  at  the  end  of  a  twelvemonth,  nor 
"  can  I  foresee  in  what  disposition  I  shall  then  find 
u  myself.'  'Ah  but,'  interrupted  Abeille,  '  we  will 
**  shorten  Angelique's  retirement  to  a  few  weeks — 
'*  elle  est  si  jeune, — il  ne  faut  pas  penser  et  prier 
tC  Dieu  too  long.'  I  was  driven  to  an  evasion  ;  for 
**  I  have  too  much  chivalry  interwoven  in  the  very 
•'  web  of  my  nature  to  reject  a  '  fair  ladye'  in  plain 
4{  terms,  and  I  said,  scarcely  controlling  a  smile  at 
"  the  resemblance  of  my  reply  to  the  formula  of  a  docile 
i{  miss,  at  her  first  offer  ;  I  said  that  my  mother  felt 
"  on  these  subjects  quite  '  en  Americaine? — that  she 
**  had  her  prejudices,  and  I  feared  it  would  break 
"  her  heart  if  I  married  any  other  than  one  of  my 
•'  own  countrywomen,  and  therefore  I  must  not 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

u  admit  the   thought   of  aspiring  to  the  hand   of 
"  Mademoiselle  Angelique. 

"  «  Est-il  possible,'  cried  Abeille,  «  q'une  femme 
"  raisonnable,  peut  etre  capable  de  telles  sottises, 
"pauvre  garden!'  This  was  spoken  in  a  tone  of 
"  deep  commiseration.  'I  pray  the  bon  Dieu  will 
11  reward  your  filial  piety  ;  but  where  will  madame 
"  find  une  Americaine  comparable  a  mon  Angelique  f 
"Toujours,  toujours  you  shall  be  mon  fils,  if 
"  you  cannot  be  the  mari  of  my  belle  Ange- 
lt  lique.  Eh  bien  ! — chacun  a  son  goiit — mais, 
"une  Americaine  preferable  a  mon  Angelique!' 
"The  old  man  took  a  double  pinch  of  snuff. 
414  Adieu,  Monsieur  Roscoe;  you  will  come  to 
•"  the  cathedrale  to  hear  the  miserere  chanted  for 
"poor  Madame  Abeille.'  I  assured  him  I  would 
"  do  so,  and  thereupon  we  parted. 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Layton,  allow  me  the  happiness 
"  of  soon  hearing  from  your  own  lips,  or  your  own 
"pen,  that  Senor  Pedrillo's  suit  has  met  its  merited 
"  fate. 

"  And  in  the  meantime,  believe  me,  as  ever, 
"  Your  devoted  friend  and  servant, 

"  GERALD  ROSCOE." 

Roscoe  was  right  in  his  conjecture  that  Pedrillo 
had  ascertained  who  had  intercepted  his  success. 
When  he  rose  from  the  prostrate  position  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  street  where  Roscoe  had  thrown  him,  he 
stumbled  over  a  hat.  He  perceived  that  the  noise 
at  Abeille' s  door  had  attracted  the  observation  of 
one  of  the  guardians  of  the  night,  and  he  thought 
proper  to  retreat,  He  took  the  hat  with  him,  and 


CLARENCE;  OR 

when  he  exposed  it  to  the  light,  he  found  within  if 
the  name  that  of  all  others  was  most  likely  to  give  a 
keen  edge  to  his  resentment.  He  had  met  Roscoc 
often  at  Mrs.  Layton's,  and  had  had  some  corro 
ding  suspicions  that  Emilie's  indifference  to  his  ad 
dresses  proceeded  from  preference  to  Roscoe.  He 
tore  off  the  name,  and  threw  the  hat  into  the  street, 
saying  as  he  did  so,  "I  have  found  out  the  object, 
and  I  will  make  the  opportunity  of  revenge." 

It  must  be  confessed  there  is  a  charm  to  our  re 
publican  society,  in  a  foreign  name  and  aristocratic 
pretensions,  like  the  fascinations  of  a  fairy  tale  to 
children.  Our  tastes  are  yet  governed  by  ancient 
prestiges — cast  in  the  old  mould.  We  profess  the 
generous  principle  that  each  individual  has  a  right 
to  his  own  eminence,  whether  his  sires  commanded 
the  heights,  or  drudged  obscurely  in  the  humblest 
vale  of  life  ;  but  artificial  distinctions  still  influence 
our  imaginations,  and  the  spell  has  not  been  dis 
solved  by  the  repeated  detection  of  the  pretensions 
of  impostors  with  foreign  manners,  and  high-sound 
ing  titles  who  have  obtained  the  entree  of  our 
fashionable  circles. 

Henriques  Pedrillo  had  far  more  plausible  claims 
to  favor  than  certain  other  vagrant  foreigners  who 
have  played  among  us  too  absurd  and  notorious  a 
part  to  be  yet  forgotten.  He  had  in  the  first  place 
*  nature's  aristocracy,'  a  person  and  face  of  uncom 
mon  symmetry  and  elegance,  and  these  advantages 
lie  cherished  and  set  oft*  with  consummate  art,  steer 
ing  a  middle  course  between  coxcombry  and  negli 
gence,  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  the  gentleman's 
toilette.  His  conversation  did  not  indicate  any  more 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  215 

erudition  than  he  might  have  imbibed  at  the  play 
house,  and  by  a  moderate  intercourse  with  culti 
vated  '  society.  He  spoke  English,  French,  and 
Spanish  equally  well  ;  and  so  well  as  to  leave  his 
hearer  in  doubt  which  was  his  vernacular ;  and  he 
had  the  insinuating  address — the  devotion  of  look 
and  manner,  in  his  intercourse  with  ladies,  that 
marks  the  exotic  in  America.  In  common  with 
most  Spaniards  who  come  among  us,  he  cast  his  na 
tivity  in  old  Castile,  though  he  confessed  he  had 
been  driven  to  the  new  world  to  repair  the  abated 
fortunes  of  his  ancient  family.  He  was  not  precise 
in  communicating  the  particulars  of  his  career;  but 
the  grand  circumstance  of  success,  if  it  did  not  ex 
tinguish  curiosity,  at  least  repressed  its  expression. 
He  had  been  recently  known  to  some  of  our  first 
merchants,  as  the  principal  in  a  rich  house  in  the 
Havana.  This  was  enough  to  satisfy  the  slight 
scrupulosity  Jasper  Layton  might  have  felt  in  intro 
ducing  him  to  his  wife  and  daughter.  Mrs.  Lay- 
ton  at  first  courted  Pedrillo  merely  as  a  brilliant 
acquisition  to  her  coterie.  She  confessed  she  had 
no  affinities  for  American  character — tame,  unex- 
citable,  and  unadorned  as  she  deemed  it.  She 
spoke  French  and  Spanish  remarkably  well,  and 
the  desire  to  demonstrate  these  accomplishments  did 
not  betray  a  very  culpable  vanity.  She  first  sedu 
lously  cultivated  Pedrillo' s  acquaintance ;  4  Eve  did 
first  eat ;'  but  Mrs.  Layton,  no  more  than  our  first 
mother,  foresaw  the  fatal  consequences  of  what  ap 
peared  a  trivial  act.  Their  relations  soon  became 
interesting  and  complicated.  Pedrillo  was  capti 
vated  by  Emilie's  pre-eminent  beauty.  Her  inno- 


216  CLARENCE;  OR 

cence  and  sweetness  touched  all  that  remained  ot 
unextinguished  goodness  in  his  nature.  The  evil 
spirits  look  back  with  lingering  affection  to  the 
heaven  they  have  forfeited. 

Layton,  a  man  of  lavish  expense,  found  Pedrillo 
a  most  convenient  friend.  Pedrillo  was  profuse, 
but  not  careless.  He  had  the  acute  habits  of  a  man 
of  business,  and  even  in  his  pleasures  he  nicely  ba 
lanced  the  amount  he  gave  against  the  considera 
tion  he  expected  to  receive.  When,  therefore,  he 
from  time  to  time,  lent  Jasper  Layton  large  sums  of 
money,  he  gloried  in  the  secret  consciousness  of  the 
power  he  was  accumulating.  Their  intimacy  grew 
till  Layton  gave  him  the  last  proof  of  his  confidence 
and  good  fellowship,  by  introducing  him  to  a  club 
of  gentlemen  who  met  privately  every  night  at  a 
gambling-house,  and  indulged  there  to  great  excess 
this  keen  and  destructive  passion. 

Pedrillo  had  acquired  in  scenes  of  stirring  ex 
citement  and  imminent  peril,  such  command  over  his 
turbulent  passions,  that  to  the  eye  of  an  observer  the 
fire  that  was  merely  covered,  seemed  extinguished. 
So  at  least  it  appeared  to  Layton,  when  after  anight 
of  various  fortune  and  feverish  excitement,  they 
emerged  from  their  club-room,  just  as  the  city 
lamps  were  dimmed  by  the  approaching  day. 
"  Pedrillo,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Layton,  "  you 
are  a  philosopher :  you  win  and  lose  with  equal 
nonchalance — I — I  confess  it — I  am  giddy  with  my 
enexpected  luck." 

"  Unexpected6?"  replied  Pedrillo. 

"Yes.  unhoped  for;  Pedrillo,  I  will  tell  yon  a 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     217 

secret.  When  I  entered  that  room  to-night  I  was 
utterly  ruined." 

"A  secret! — ha!  ha!" 

"  A  secret — yes,  you  might  have  guessed  it,  for 
God  knows  you  were  deeply  concerned  in  it — but 
all  scores  are  wiped  out  now,  hey,  Pedrillo  ?  That 
last  bragger  cleared  off  the  last  five  thousand — and 
my  loss  to  that  devilish  fellow  Martin,  that  is  ba 
lanced  too ;  thank  Heaven  I  am  my  own  man  again ; 
a  timely  whirl  of  the  wheel  it  was.  Fortune,  blind 
goddess  as  thou  art,  I  still  will  worship  thee !" 

"  Do  we  visit  her  temple  to-morrow  night  ?" 

<•  Certainly." 

"  Au  revoir,  then."  They  parted  ;  Layton  went 
one  way,  intoxicated  with  success,  humming  glees 
and  catches,  now  twisting  his  cane  around  his  fin 
gers,  now  striking  it  on  the  pavement,  and  even  at 
tracting  the  eye  of  the  drowsy  watchmen  by  his  irre 
gular  movements.  His  spirits  would  have  fled  if  he 
had  penetrated  Pedrillo's  bosom,  and  seen  the  keen, 
vigilant  suspicion  he  had  awakened  there. 

The  next  night  they  met  again  at  the  gaming 
table.  Fortune  maintained  her  perch  on  Layton's 
cards  ;  Pedrillo  lost  large  sums.  Again  they  left  the 
house  together.  Pedrillo  appeared  even  more  un 
moved  than  he  had  on  the  preceding  night.  He 
congratulated  Layton  with  as  much  seeming  uncon 
cern  as  if  the  subject  in  question  were  a  mercantile 
speculation  in  which  he  had  no  personal  concern. 
Layton  was  in  ecstacies — "  You  may  defy  the  world, 
Pedrillo  !"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  the  highest  good 
humor,  "  and  all  its  turns,  tricks,  and  shufflings. 
Those  poor  devils  we  have  left  behind  us  are  readjv 
VOL.  I.  19 


CLARENCE;  OR 

to  cut  their  own  throats,  or  mine.    Zounds !  my  deav 
fellow,  you  are  high-souled  and  whole-souled — " 

"Have  you  heard  from  Miss  Emilie,  to-day ?" 
asked  Pedrillo,    rather    abruptly   interrupting  his 
companion's  strain  of  lavish  compliment. 
"  Yes." 

"Does  she  permit  me  to  follow  her?" 
Layton's  elated  tone  was  changed  to  one  more 
conciliatory,  as  he  replied,  "  Why,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  Pedrillo,  she  seems  disinclined  ;  and  on  the 
whole  we  may  as  well  consider  the  affair  as  ended." 
"  When  did  you  come  to  that  conclusion,  sir  ?" 
"  When  ?  what  difference  does  that  make,  if  it  be 
:i  wise  conclusion  ?" 

"  Do  we  meet  to-morrow  night  ?" 
"  As  you  please ;  after  my  run  of  luck  it  does  not 
become  me  to  propose  it." 

"  We  meet  then  ;  and  after  we  will  speak  of  Miss 
Emilie." 

"  Eh  bien ;  but  of  course  Pedrillo,  you  under 
stand  that  I  shall  never  consent  to  put  any  force  on 
her  inclinations." 

"  You  shall  do  as  you  choose" — and  he  added 
mentally,  "  you  shall  choose  it.  Jasper  Layton,  as 
surely  as  a  man  chooses  life  rather  than  death." 

The  next  evening  found  them  at  their  accustomed 
haunt.  After  Pedrillo  and  Layton  had  played  one 
game,  Pedrillo  threw  up  the  cards,  alleging  a  pain 
and  dizziness  in  his  head.  Another  took  his  place. 
He  continued  to  stride  up  and  down  the  room,  some 
times  pausing  beside  Layton,  and  always  keeping 
his  eye  fixed  on  him.  Layton  had  a  dim  conscious 
ness,  as  some  sensitive  persons  have  in  their  sleep,  of 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  210 

a  steady  gaze,  and  once  or  twice  he  looked  up,  star 
tled  and  inquiring,  but  instantly  his  attention  re 
verted  to  the  portentous  interests  of  the  game. 
From  time  to  time  angry  and  half-smothered  excla 
mations  broke  from  his  companions,  at  his  obstinate 
luck  ;  still  they  continued  with  fatal  desperation  to 
wager  and  lose,  and  when  the  play  was  finished, 
they  had  lost,  and  Layton  had  won  all.  Accustom 
ed  as  they  were  to  sudden  and  violent  fluctuations 
of  fortune,  their  continued  losses  on  the  present  oc 
casion  had  exhausted  their  patience,  and  deprived 
them  of  the  power  of  quelling  the  expression  of 
their  excited  passions.  Despair,  madness,  and 
worse^than  all,  suspicion,  burst  forth  in  loud  impre 
cations,  or  in  half  audible  murmurs.  Layton's 
cheek  burnt,  and  his  hand  trembled,  with  triumph, 
or  resentment,  or  consciousness,  but  he  uttered  not 
one  word  ;  and  when,  as  they  left  the  apartment,  he, 
as  usual,  thrust  his  arm  into  Pedrillo's,  Pedrillo 
withdrew  from  him,  and  fixed  on  him  a  cold  pene 
trating  glance  that  thrilled  through  his  soul.  He 
involuntarily  shivered — they  emerged  from  the  long 
dark  passage,  that  led  from  their  secret  haunt  to  the 
street,  into  a  damp,  hot,  steaming  atmosphere.  "  A 
singular  morning  for  agues  !"  said  Pedrillo,  looking 
contemptuously  at  Layton,  while  he  took  off  his 
own  hat  and  fanned  himself,  as  if  to  stir  some  Jiving 
principle  in  the  suffocating  air.  Layton  turned 
his  eye  timidly  to  Pedrillo  ;  their  glances  met — a 
keen  intelligence,  a  malignant  triumph,  and  piti 
less  contempt,  spoke  in  Pedrillo's ;  the  shame,  and 
fear,  and  misery  of  detected  villany,  in  Layton's. 
They  walked  on  in  silence  to  the  head  of  the  street, 


220 


CLARENCE;  on 


where,  instead  of  parting  as  usual,  Pedrillo  drew 
nearer  to  Layton,  took  his  arm,  and  went  on  with 
him.  "  A  word  to  the  wise,"  he  said,  in  a  low  thrill 
ing  voice,  "  a  w<>rd  to  the  wise,  for  wise  I  think 
you  will  be  after  this  folly— the  ass  should  not  at 
tempt  a  cheat  in  the  presence  of  the  fox,  Layton. 
I  suspected  your  trick  the  first  night — the  second  my 
suspicions  were  confirmed — to-night  I  have  detect 
ed  you.  Let  this  pass.  You  have  been  rash — 
imprudent  in  your  practice,  my  good  friend ;  you 
should  have  calculated  more  nicely  the  chances  of 
detection.  Other  suspicions  than  mine  are  awaken 
ed,  but  there  is  an  immeasurable  distance  between 
suspicion  and  certainty,  and  we  may  continue  to  wi 
den  that  distance  ;  that  is,  if,"  and  as  he  finished  his 
sentence,  every  word  seemed  measured  and  weighed, 
and  sunk  like  lead  into  Lay  ton's  heart, — "  if  in 
future  we  are  friends  ?" 

The  tone  was  interrogative,  and  Layton  replied 
gaspingly,  "certainly,  certainly." 

"  Well,  very  well ;  we  understand  each  other,  do 
we  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  perfectly." 

"  Then  let  that  pass — -'  II  ne  faut  pas  etre  plus 
sage  qu'il  ne  faut' — details  are  disagreeable  and  you 
are  sure,  quite  sure  there  is  a  clear  mutual  compre 
hension  ?" 

Layton  felt  at  every  word  as  if  a  new  manacle  were 
rivetted  on  him.  Still,  safety  on  any  terms,  were 
better  than  destruction,  and  while  he  writhed  un 
der  the  power,  he  dared  not  resist ;  "  Proceed,"  he 
cried,  "for  God's  sake-^-you  know  I  understand 
you." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

"  Then,  Layton,"  he  resumed  in  a  familiar,  every 
day  tone  of  voice,  "  my  lips  are  sealed — as  to  the 
few  thousands  you  have  won  from  me,  retain  them, 
as  a  consideration  in  part  for  the  treasure  you  en 
sure  me — ensure  me,  mark  my  words ;  and,  Lay- 
ton,  if  in  future  you  get  becalmed,  do  not  attempt 
to  raise  the  wind  by  such  desperate  expedients. 
There  are  a  few  situations  in  life  where  honesty  is 
the  best  policy,  and  the  gaming  table  is  one  of  them. 
But  before  we  part,  let  us  settle  our  plan  of  action. 
Suspicion  is  awake,  go  again  to-morrow  night,  and 
lose  your  winnings  liberally  !  this  will  baffle  their 
sagacity,  and  what  is  more,  appease  their  resent 
ment.  Do  you  like  my  counsel?" 

"  I  will  take  it." 

"  Good  night  then,  or  rather  good  morning,  for 
I  think  the  sun  is  glimmering  through  the  scalding 
fog."  They  parted,  and  Layton  sprang  on  his  own 
door-step,  as  a  newly  captured  slave  would  dart 
from  the  presence  of  his  master.  "  One  word," 
said  Pedrillo,  turning  back,  "you  write  to  Miss 
Emilie  to-morrow?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  communicate  my  determination 
to  her." 

"  Oh  !  « of  course. '  "  replied  Pedrillo,  with  a 
4  laughing  devil  in  his  eye,'  and  quoting  Layton's 
last  words  of  the  preceding  evening,  "<  of  course 
you  will  put  no  force  on  her  inclinations.' "  An 
oath  rose  to  Layton's  lips,  but  he  suppressed  all  ex 
pression  till  secure  from  observation  in  his  own 
room,  he  gave  vent  to  a  burst  of  passion  ;  but  re 
sentment,  remorse,  and  parental  tenderness,  were 
now  alike  unavailing.  He  was  inextricably  in- 
19* 


222  CLARENCE;  OR 

volved  with  Pedrillo,  and  his  own  safety  could  onlv 
be  secured  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  beautiful  child. 

Jasper  Layton  was  the  only  son  of  a  man  of  ta- 
lent,  virtue,  and  fortune,  and  he  never  quite  lost  the 
sense  of  the  responsibility  such  an  inheritance  in 
volved  -T  and  to  the  last,  the  fear  of  publicly  disgracing 
his  honorable  name,  was  a  source  of  the  keenest 
suffering  to  him.  Unfortunately  he  came  into  pos 
session,  by  his  father's  death,  of  a  large  fortune, 
before  he  had  sufficient  strength  of  principle,  01 
habit,  to  encounter  its  temptations.  He  was  not 
destitute  of  kind,  or  even  tender  affections ;  but 
what  good  thing  thrives  without  culture  ?  and  frivo 
lous  pursuits  and  selfish  indulgences  had  rendered 
his  callous.  Still,  they  had  not  perished,  and  it  was 
after  many  heart-writhings,  and  after  a  long  inter 
view  with  Pedrillo  on  the  subsequent  morning, 
that  he  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  wife — to  a 
wife  who,  if  she  had  rightly  employed  her  superior 
powers,  might  have  saved  him  from  the  wreck  of 
virtue  and  happiness. 

"  Madam — I  enclose  you  a  remittance,  according 
"to  the  conjugal  request  you  did  me  the  honor  to 
"  transmit  through  Gerald  Roscoe,  Esq. ;  and  at  the 
"  same  time,  I  take  the  liberty  to  forewarn  you,  that 
"  unless  you  second—energetically  second,  my 

"  views  and  wishes  in  the affair,  I  shall  lose 

"the  ability,  as  I  have  long  ago  lost  the  inclination, 
"  to  answer  the  demands  arising  from  your  habits  of 
"  reckless  expense.  I  expect  you  to  be  at  Trenton 
"  by  the  first  of  next  month.  Pedrillo  will  follow 
''you  there  ;  and  there,,  or  at  Utica  (he  leaves  all 


I 
A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  223 

u  minor  points  to  her  decision)  he  expects  to  re- 
"  ceive  Emilie' s  hand.  He  loves  Emilie — upon 
"  my  soul  I  believe  de  does — devotedly. 

"  God  knows  I  have  taken  every  care  of  her  hap- 

4<  piness  in  my  arrangements  with  P .     He  has 

44  made  a  magnificent  settlement  on  her,  and  pro- 
"  mises  never,  but  with  her  consent,  to  take  her  to 
"  Cuba.  Do  not  moralize  (it  is  not  your  forte) 
"  about  P.'s  foibles.  I  know  the  world  ;  we  must 
"  take  our  choice  between  unmasked  frailty,  and 
'*  hypocrisy.  I,  for  one,  prefer  the  former.  P.'s 
u  liberality  covers,  a  multitude  of  sins.  Women 
"  must  be  married.  Emilie,  poor  girl,  will  not  it  is 
"  true,  marry  for  love ;  but  we  married  for  love  ! 
**  and  what  has  come  of  it  ?  ha !  ha  !  It  is  well 
*'  enough  for  boys  and  girls  to  dream  about,  and 
"  novelists  to  string  their  stories  on  ;  but  you  and  I 
"  know  it  is  all  cursed  dupery.  All  that  can  be 
"  secured  in  matrimonial  life  is  pecuniary  indepen- 
;t  deuce.  To  this  I  have  attended  with  parental 
"  fidelity. 

"  You  must  do  your  part ;  your  influence  over 
""  E.  is  unbounded;  and  if  you  choose  to  exercise  it. 
"  you  can  incline  her  (force  is  of  course  out  of  the 
"  question)  to  do  that,  on  which,  let  me  tell  you> 
'**  madam,  your  as  well  as  my  happiness — happiness  ! 
"  existence  depends.  We  are  ruined,  dishonored, 
'"  if  this  affair  is  not  brought  to  a  fortunate  conclu- 
u  sion.  I  tell  you  this  because  it  is  necessary  yon 
"  should  know  the  worst,  to  second  me  as  you 
"  should ;  but  make  no  unessential  communications 
"  to  poor  E.  God  preserve  that  cheek  from  shame 


224  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

"  that  has  never  been  dyed  but  with  the  pure  blush 
"  of  innocence. 

"  Do  your  part,  I  beseech  you,  and  do  it  well, 
"and  effectually;  you  can  act  like  a  woman  of 
"  sense.  Bat  I  am  urging  where  I  should  com- 
"  mand.  Remember  you  have  other  children,  and 
"  will  have  future  wants.  Can  you  look  poverty 
"  and  disgrace  in  the  face  ?  If  not,  you  know  the 
ki  alternative.  Yours,  &ic. 

"  JASPER  LAYTON." 

While  the  episode  in  Pedrillo's  life  related  in 
Roscoe's  letter,  and  the  transactions  of  the  gaming 
house  were  passing  in  New  York,  Gertrude  Cla 
rence  was  enjoying  an  almost  daily  interchange  of 
visits  with  her  new  friends,  and  an  acquaintance 
that  promised  nothing  but  happiness  was  ripening 
into  intimacy.  Mrs.  Layton  found  herself  com 
pelled  by  the  receipt  of  her  husband's  letter,  sud 
denly  to  suspend  this  intercourse,  and  she  despatch 
ed  the  following  note  to  Gertrude,  in  which,  as  will 
be  seen,  she  did  not  hint  at  the  place  of  her  destina 
tion  after  she  left  Upton's-p'  ^chase.  She  had  her 
reasons  for  this  reserve.  She  feared  that  Mrs.  Up 
ton  would  propose  to  accompany  her,  as  a  ride  to 
Trenton  from  her  residence  was  a  convenient  and 
tempting  jaunt  of  pleasure ;  and  she  meant  that  her 
going  there  should  appear  to  have  been  the  conse 
quence  of  a  subsequent  arrangement. 

"  It  is  with  inexpressible  sorrow,  my  sweetest 
"  friend,  that  I  am  compelled  to  bid  you  adieu  with- 
"  out  again  seeing  you.  We  take  our  departure 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  225 

"early  in  the  morning.  Poor  Em'  is  quite  heart- 
"  broken  about  it.  We  are  both  under  the  tyranny 
"  of  destiny.  I  resign  all  to  the  despot,  save  my 
"  affections;  and  of  those,  you,  dearest,  have  taken 
"  complete  possession.  It  is  not  because  you  are 
"  a  heroine  of  the  nineteenth  century;  that  is,  prac- 
"  tical,  rational,  dutiful,  and  all  the  tedious  et  ceteras 
"  that  I  admire  you.  No,  these  are  qualities  that,  like 
"  bread  and  water,  are  the  gross  elements  of  every 
"  day  life,  but  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  that 
"  fine  accord  of  finely  touched  spirits  that  common 
"  minds  can  no  more  attain  than  common  senses  can 
t{  take  in  the  music  of  the  spheres.  There  is  no 
"  describing  it,  but  we  understand  it;  do  we  not  f* 
"  Dear  Gertrude,  you  must  be  my  friend,  you  must 
"  love  me  ;  you  will  have  much  to  forgive  in  me.  I 
"  am  a  way  ward  creature.  Oh,  heavens  !  how  infe- 
"  rior  to  you !  but  there  have  been  crosses  in  my 
"  destiny.  Had  I  known  you  sooner,  your  bland 
"  influence  would  have  given  a  different  color  to 
"  my  life.  You  understand  me.  I  disdain  the 
"  Procrustes  standard  of  pattern  ladies  who  admit 
"  none  to  the  heaven  of  their  favor,  but  those 
"  who  can  walk  on  a  mathematical  line,  like  that 
"  along  which  a  Mahometan  passes  to  his  paradise. 
"  My  best  regards  tg  your  father.  I  wish  he 
"  could  have  looked  into  my  heart  and  seen  how  I 
"  was  charmed  with  his  manners  to  you  ;  the  chival* 
"  ric  tenderness  of  the  lover  mingling  with  the  calm 
"  sentiment  of  the  father.  Would  that  poor  Em' 

"  had but  on  certain  subjects  unhappy  wo- 

"  man  is  forbidden  to  speak.     To  you,  my  loveliest 
"  friend,  a  husband  would  be  a  superfluity — at  pre- 


CLARENCE;  OR 

"  sent.  But  to  poor  Em'  how  necessary.  You 
"  must  come  to  us  this  winter.  I  shall  make  a 
"  formal  attack  on  your  father  to  that  effect.  I 
"  shall  bring  out  all  the  arts  of  diplomacy  ;  but  1 
"  shall  need  no  arts.  I  have  good  sense  on  my 
"  side,  and  i  good  sense'  is  the  oracle  of  every  man 
"  past  forty.  Clarenceville  is,  I  allow,  in  the  sum- 
"  mer,  a  most  delicious  residence,  the  favored  haunt, 
"  the  home  of  the  genius  of  mountain  and  lake ; 
"  but  in  winter,  when  the  grass  withers,  the  leaves 
"  fall,  the  running  stream  runs  no  longer,  and  the 
"  winds  are  howling  through  these  sublime  forests, 
"  (a  nervous  sound  of  a  dark  day  or  cloudy  night,) 
"  then  come  to  the  luxuries  of  civilization  in  town. 
"  Man  was  not  made  to  contend  alone  with  nature ; 
"  and,  with  honest  Touchstone,  I  confess  that  the 
"  country  in  respect  *  it  is  in  the  green  fields,  is 
•'  pleasant;  but  (at  all  seasons) in  respect  it's  far  from 
"  court,  it  is  tedious.'  But  pardon  me,  I  had  for- 
"  gotten  this  was  a  note.  One  is  so  beguiled 
"  into  forgetfulness  of  every  thing  else  when  com- 
"  muning  with  you,  dearest!  Einilie  begs  me  to 
"  say  farewell  for  her."  Here  followed  half  a 
dozen  lines  so  carefully  effaced,  that  the  keenest 
curiosity  could  not  discover  a  word.  The  note 
proceeded  :  "  These  crossed  lines  prove  how  invo- 
"  luntarily  my  heart  flows  out  to  you — how  unwil- 
"  lingly  it  bears  the  c^old  restraint  of  prudence  ;  but, 
"  after  a  few  days,  such  restrictions  will  be  unne- 
"  cessary.  Till  then,  believe  me,  dear  Gertrude, 
**  Yours,  most  truly, 

"  GRACE  LAYTON." 
"  N.  B,  My  mind  was  so  engaged  with  matters 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

li  of  deeper  interest  that  I  forgot  to  mention  the 
*{  total  wreck  of  poor  Upton's  expectations  of 
"  making  a  family  piece  in  an  English  book.  She 
ic  has  exhausted  her  hospitalities  on  this  son  of  an 
"  English  baronet,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  herself,  and 
"  the  Judge,  and  all  the  little  Uptons  in  print,  when 
"  lo !  she  has  found  this  morning,  in  the  course  of  one 
ki  of  her  housewife  explorations,  a  leaf  from  the  travel- 
"  ler's  note-book.  I  can  stop  to  give  you  but  a 
"  few  specimens  from  the  memorandum.  I  am  vexed 
•*  at  the  fellow's  impertinence  towards  you ;  but  you 
u  are  a  femme  raisonnable,  and  know  that  fortune 
%<  must  be  thus  taxed.  *  Mem.  Upton' s-purchase, 
;f  residence  of  a  country  justice — convenient  vicinity 
•'  to  some  celebrated  lake-scenery — staid  here  on 
"'  that  account.  American  scenery  quite  savage — 
4*  Justsce  U.  an  abyss  of  ignorance — wife,  a  mighty 
f<  vulgar  little  person — children,  pests — no  servants 
"  — two  helps.  Dined  at  Clarenceville.  The  C.s 
•' great  people  in  America — giants  in  Lilliput! — " 
"  Amer'n  table  barbarisms — porter  and  salad  with 
"  meats  !  peas  with  currie  ! — no  poultry — no  butch- 
i4  er's  meat.  Query,  do  the  inferior  animals  as  well 
•'  as  man  uniformly  degenerate,  and  become  scarce 
"  in  America  ?  'Miss  C.  an  only  daughter — a  pro 
digious  fortune — pretty  good  air  too — do  very 
"  well  caught  young — but  can't  go  again.  Devilish 
"  pretty  girl  here — mother  a  knowing  one.'  You  see, 
;{  dear  Gertrude,  we  have  all  apart  in  these  precious 
•*  notes.  Poor  little  Upton  half  cried  as,  she  read 
*'  them.  We  are  philosophers  and  may  laugh. 
"  Again,  and  at  each  moment  more  tenderly, 

"Yours,      G.L." 


228  CLARENCE;   OR 

"  One  more  nota  bene  and  I  have  done.  I  have 
"just  received  a  folio  from  Gerald  Roscoe — Oh  ! 
"  what  a  lover  he  will  be  !  how  I  could  have  loved 
"  such  a  man  !  Who  is  it  that  says  (too  truly!)  that 
u  'la  puissance  d' aimer  esttrop  grande,  elle  1'esttrop 
"  dans  les  ames  ardentes !' 

Farewell,  dearest, 

G.  L." 

Gertrude  wondered  that  Mrs.  Layton  should  be 
so  reserved  about  Emilie's  affairs,  when  she  manifest 
ed  such  singular  confidence,  and  unbounded  ten 
derness  ;  for  measuring  her  new  friend  by  her  own 
purity  and  truth,  she  gave  full  credit  to  all  her  ex 
pressions.  Contrasted  with  the  simple  regard  and 
unexaggerated  language  of  Gertrude's  common  ac 
quaintance,  they  were  like  the  luscious  fruits  of  the 
tropics,  compared  with  our  cold  northern  produc 
tions. 

'  But  she  had  now  no  time  to  analyze  her  fascina 
ting  friend.  The  jaunt  to  Trenton,  to  which  her 
father  had  at  once  consented,  on  Seton's  account 
had  been  delayed  from  day  to  day,  for  two  weeks, 
from  the  daily  occurrence  of  the  rural  affairs  of 
midsummer,  that  seem  to  country  gentlemen,  of  the 
first  importance.  In  the  mean  while,  Seton  was 
becoming  worse.  The  family  physician,  announced 
the  approach  of  a  nervous  fever,  that  could  only  be 
averted  by  change  of  air ;  and  Mr.  Clarence  put 
aside  every  other  concern  ;  and,  on  the  very  day  of 
Mrs.  Layton's  departure,  he  set  off  with  Gertrude 
and  Seton,  and  servants  competent  to  the  care  of 
the  invalid,  in  case  he  failed  to  derive  the  benefit 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     229 

they  hoped,  from  the  journey.  Mr.  Clarence  was 
usually  particularly  annoyed  by  the  discomforts  of 
travelling  ;  his  philosophy  completely  subdued  by 
bad  roads,  bad  coffee,  bad  bread,  and  worst  and 
chiefest  of  all  plagues,  by  the  piratical  «  red  rovers' 
that  *  murder  sleep  ;'  but  his  benevolence  now  got 
the  better  of  the  habits  generated  by  ill  health 
and  indulgence — he  thought,  and  cared  only  for 
Seton. 

If  the  unhappy  patient's  malady  had  been  within 
the  reach  of  art,  it  must  have  been  subdued  by  Ger 
trude's  ministrations ;  for  with  that  exquisite  sensi- 
sibility,  which  vibrates  to  every  motion  of  another's 
spirit,  she  watched  all  the  variations  of  his  mind, 
and  imparted  or  withheld  the  sunshine  of  her  own, 
as  best  suited  his  humor ;  but,  in  spite  of  skill 
and  patience,  and  sisterly  vigilance,  the  nervous 
fever  predicted  by  the  physician  made  hourly  en 
croachments  ;  and  the  necessity  of  a  few  hours' 
delay  at  one  of  the  noisiest  inns  of  that  noi 
siest  of  all  growing  towns,  thronged  busy  Utica, 
exasperated  the  disease  to  an  alarming  degree. 

As  may  be  supposed,  Mr.  Clarence  had  not  come 
to  the  most  public  hotel  of  a  town,  abounding  in 
every  species  and  grade  of  receptacle  for  travel 
lers,  till  he  had  unsuccessfully  applied  for  admit 
tance  to  the  other  more  private,  but  now  overflowing 
houses. 

The  travellers,  on  alighting,  were  shown  into  the 
common  receiving  parlor,  a  large  apartment  open 
ing  into  the  public  hall,  and  near  the  general  en 
trance  door.  Mr.  Clarence,  after  vainly  attempt 
ing  to  obtain  audience  of  the  official  departments  of 

Vet.  I.  20 


230  CLARENCE;  OR 

the  house,  and  after  a  fruitless  quest  for  some  pri 
vate  and  unoccupied  apartment,  was  compelled  to 
content  himself  with  securing  the  exclusive  posses 
sion  of  a  settee,  which  had  the  advantage  of  a  posi 
tion  removed  as  far  as  the  dimensions  of  the  apart 
ment  admitted,  from  either  of  the  general  passage 
doors,  through  which  the  full  tide  of  human  exist- 
tence  ebbed  and  flowed.  Here,  he,  Gertrude,  and 
Seton,  seated  themselves  ;  and  here  they  might  fora 
little  time,  but  for  poor  Seton,  have  been  well 
enough  amused  with  the  contrast  to  the  seclusion, 
quiet,  and  elegance  of  their  home. 

The  front  windows  of  the  apartment  looked  into 
the  most  public,  -and  par  excellence  the  busiest  street 
of  the  town,  the  avenue  to  the  great  northern  turn 
pike.  Stage-coaches  were  waiting,  arriving,  de 
parting,  driving  to  and  fro,  as  if  all  the  world  were 
a  stage-coach,  and  all  the  men  and  women  merely 
travellers. 

The  *  window  privilege '  (  as  our  New-England 
friends  would  say)  at  the  side  of  the  room,  was  no 
way  inferior  to  that  in  front.  This  afforded  a  view 
of  the  canal,  and  of  the  general  debouching  place 
of  its  packet-boats — all  elements  are  here  tributary 
to  the  forwarding  system. 

There  were  servants  and  porters  hustling  baggage 
off  and  on  the  boats — stage-coach  proprietors  perse 
cuting  the  jaded  passengers  with  rival  claims  to  pa 
tronage — agents  clothed  in  official  importance — 
idlers,  for  even  here  are  idlers,  and  all  '  as  their 
tempers  were,'  munering,  sneering,  scolding,  joking, 
laughing,  or  silently  submitting  to  their  fate. 
The  way-worn,  weary  travellers,  as  they  poured 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.      231 

into   the  hotel,  seemed  the  victims,  instead  of  the 
authors,  of  this  hurly-burly. 

A  female,  with  a  highly  decorated  pongee  riding- 
dress,  gaudy  ear-rings,  a  watch  at  her  side,  with  half 
a  dozen  seals,  and  a  gold  safety  chain,  as  big  as  a 
cable  around  her  neck — in  short,  with  the  aspect  of 
a  half  gentlewoman,  seated  herself  beside  Miss  Cla 
rence,  and  very  unceremoniously  began  a  conversa 
tion  with  her.  "  Are  you  going  on  in  the  pioneer 
line,  Ma'am  f"  "  No."  "  Oh,  in  the  telegraph — so 
are  we,  it  is  much  more  select ;  but  I  tell  my  hus 
band,  that  all  the  stages  are  too  levelling  to  suit 
rne" — a  pause  ensued,  and  soon  after  the  lady 
beckoned  to  her  husband.  "My dear,  who  is  that 
foreign  looking  gentleman,  that  says  he  is  going 
on  in  the  pioneer-line?"  "The  Duke  of  Monte- 
Bello !"  The  lady  looked  all  aghast  at  the  un 
timely  discovery,  that  levels  might  be  raised  as  well 
as  lowered  in  a  stage-coach. 

The  only  apparently  perfectly  cool  member  of 
this  bustling  community,  was  a  ruddy-faced,  tight- 
built,  active,  little  man,  not  far  declined  from  his  me 
ridian,  who  was  walking  in  and  out,  and  up  and 
down  the  room,  addressing  the  individuals  of  this 
motley  crowd,  with  the  eas^  air  of  a  citizen  of  the 
world.  He  approached  Mr.  Clarence,  and  by  way 
of  an  introductory  salutation  observed,  that  it  was  a 
*  warmish  day.'  The  mercury  stood  at  ninety,  and 
Mr.  Clarence'  blood  at  fever  heat. 

"  Intensely  hot,"  he  replied,  without  turning  his 
head  or  moving  his  eye  from  the  ark-like  boats, 
which  were  gliding  under  the  bridge  that  crossed 
the  canal. 


232  CLARENCE;    OR 

"A  pretty  sight  that!"  continued  the  good-na 
tured  man,  "  especially,  to  one,  who,  like  myself,  has 
travelled  through  this  town  many  and  many  a  day. 
in  fair  weather  and  foul,  with  the  mail  on  my  back.'1 

"  You,  my  friend,  you  do  not  look  older  than  m}-- 
self !" 

I  think  I  have  some  dozen  years  the  advantage  of 
you,  sir  ;  but  I  have  led  a  stirring  kind  of  a  life,  and 
kept  my  blood  warm,  and  courage  up.  Yes,  sir, 
just  where  the  grand  canaul  goes,  1  used  to  whistle 
along  a  foot-path ;  and  here,  where  the  folks  are 
now  as  thick  as  blades  of  grass  in  June,  stood  my 
log-house  ;  and  my  wife,  and  four  flax-headed  little 
boys,  were  all  the  inhabitants.  I  love  to  look  back 
upon  those  times,  though  I  have  now  seventy  dri 
vers  in  my  employ  ;  but  we  grow  with  the  country, 
and  get  to  be  gentlemen  before  we  know  it  ;  excuse 
me,  sir,  my  coaches  are  getting  under  way." 

A  fresh  bustle  now  broke  out  ;  Babel  was  no 
thing  to  it ;  for  no  post-coaches  stood  at  its  devoted 
doors.  "  Hurra  for  the  western  passengers !"  Gen 
tlemen  and  ladies  for  Sacket's  harbor — all  ready!" 
"  Hurra  for  Trenton  !"  "  Pioneer  line — ready  !'J 
"  Gentlemen  and  ladies  for  the  Telegraph !"  "  The 
bell  is  ringing  for  the  Adams  boat — going  out  !r 
"  Horn  blowing  for  the  Jackson — coming  in." 

Where  was  poor  Seton,  and  his  nerves,  in  this 
melee.  "  It  will  certainly  kill  him,"  thought  Ger 
trude,  and  calling  to  a  black  fellow,  who  was  hur 
rying  hither  and  thither,  as  if  he  were  the  ruling 
spirit  of  the  scene  ;  "  my  good  friend,"  she  said, 
imploringly,  "  cannot  you  get  a  private  room,  fox 
that  sick  gentleman  ?" 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  233 

Blackey  grinned  from  ear  to  ear ;  "  Missess  canM 
suspect  a  private  room  in  a  public-house." 

Happily,  his  reply,  half  impudent,  and  half  sim 
ple,  caught  the  ear  of  our  friend,  the  some-time 
mail-bearer;  who  ordered  the  servant,  instantly, to  find 
private  apartments,  and  accompanied  his  command 
with  such  demonstrations  of  his  having  *  come  to  be 
a  gentleman,'  as  none  may  give,  in  our  country,  but 
those  who  have  worked  their  passage  to  that  eleva 
tion  ;  and  none  will  receive,  but  those,  whose  color 
stamps  their  subordination.  When  blackey  had  re 
covered  from  the  impetus,  that  had  hurled  him  from 
one  extremity  of  the  room  to  the  other,  his  chastiser 
ordered  him  to  show  the  lady  to  the  square-room  ; 
and  said,  he  would  himself  conduct  the  gentlemen 
to  the  best  apartments  the  house  afforded.  Most 
gratefully  did  they  all  follow,  blesssing  the  timely 
interposition  of  the  bustling  little  man  in  authority. 

Miss  Clarence  took  possession  of  her  apartment, 
opened  the  sashes,  closed  the  blinds,  and  was  just 
throwing  herself  upon  the  bed,  when,  a  horribly 
scrawled  half-sheet  of  paper,  caught  her  eye.  She 
picked  it  up,  and  taking  it  for  granted,  that  it  was 
some  discarded  scrawl,  and  without  once  doubting, 
whether  it  were  proper  to  read  it,  and  having 
nothing  else  to  do,  she  began  it ;  and  once  begun, 
it  was  read,  and  re-read.  There  was  no  address, 
no  signature  ;  it  was  not  folded,  or  finished.  It 
ran  thus  : 

"  You  will  be   surprised   at  this  addenda  to  the 

"  folio  I  have  just  despatched  ;  if,  indeed,  you  can 

'"  decipher  it,  written,  as  it  musj.'be,  with  a  bar-room 

•'  pen,  and  diluted  ink.     Since  I  put  that  in  the  P. 

20* 


234 


CLARENCE;  OR 


£<  Office,  I  have  had  positive  information — there  i* 
" no  longer  any  doubt  remaining.  The  poor  girl  is 
"passive,  and  P.  is  to  follow  them  to  Trenton. 
"  What  horrible  infatuation  !  You  may  think  me  as 
"  infatuated  to  hope  to  prevent  it ;  bnt  I  cannot  look 
"  on,  and  see  a  creature  so  young,  so  innocent,  and 
"  so  lovely,  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and  not 
J;  stretch  out  my  arm  to  rescue  her  from  destruction. 
"  I  will  communicate  the  terrible  suspicions  that  are 
c;  abroad  ;  if  my  efforts  are  abortive,  why ,  I  shall  have 
<c  made  them,  and  that  will  be  some  consolation.  I 

"  think  if  I  see ,  I  can  dissipate  her  delusion ;  if, 

"  indeed,  it  be  delusion ;  but  if,  as  I  rather  think,  it  is 
"  a  timid  submission  to  tyranny,  I  shall  try  to  rouse 
"  her  courage  to  rebellion.  This  crusade,  of  course, 
"  prevents  my  paying  my  respects  at  Clarenceville ; 
u  I  understand  there  are  troops  of  pilgrims  to  that 
*;  shrine.  Let  them  bow  before  the  golden  idol — I 
:i  reserve  my  worship,  for  the  image  to  be  set  np  in 

"  my  heart.     Report  says  that  Miss  C " 

Here  the  letter  had  been  interrupted,  and  as  Ger 
trude  hoped,  unintentionally  left,  for  she  could  not 
believe  that  a  person  who  could  indite  a  decent 
epistle  would  expose  such  allusions  to  public  in 
spection.  *  Who  could  have  written  it  ?'  She  ran 
over  the  whole  catalogue  of  her  own,  and  her  fa 
ther's  acquaintance.  Not  one  appeared  as  the  pro 
bable  writer.  She  thought  of  Gerald  Roscoe,  but 
she  was  familiar  with  his  autograph,  and,  *  thank 
heaven,  it  was  not  he,'  she  ejaculated  audibly, 
and  smiled  involuntarily  at  the  sensation  of  escape 
she  derived  from  this  assurance.  *  Why  was  it 
she  had  rather  it  had  been  any  other  man  living 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWtf  TIMES.  235 

than  Gerald  Roscoe  ?'  Before  she  had  given  this 
self-inter  ogation  fair  hearing,  and  while  she  was 
folding  the  manuscript  with  the  intention  of  show 
ing  it  to  her  father,  she  heard  a  tap  at  the  door, 
and  the  voice  of  the  negro-servant,  saying,  '  Won't 
missess  please  to  hand  me  a  written  letter,  lying  on 
the  table  under  a  handkerchief,  and  won't  missess 
please  to  keep  the  handkerchief  tight  over  it,  case 
the  gentleman's  very  pa'tic'lar  not  to  have  me,  nor 
nobody  read  it." 

She  looked  around  the  room,  saw  a  cambric 
handkerchief,  not  far  from  the  place  where  she  had 
found  the  letter,  and  scrupulously  covered  it ;  but 
she  did  not  transfer  it  to  the  servant  till  (as  every 
woman  will  believe)  she  had  vainly  investigated  every 
corner  for  a  mark.  She  was  gratified  with  this  indi 
rect  assurance  that  the  exposure  of  the  letter  had 
been  accidental  and  limited  to  herself,  and  probably 
owing  to  the  draft  of  wind  occasioned  by  her  throw 
ing  open  the  window  when  she  entered  the  apart 
ment. 

But  what  could  console  the  high-minded  Gertrude 
Clarence  for  the  conviction  that  continually  pressed 
on  her  from  every  quarter,  and  in  every  form,  that 
the  accident  of  fortune,  a  distinction  that  she  had 
never  sought,  and  never  valued,  exposed  her  to 
slights  and  ridicule ;  to  be  dreaded  and  avoided  by 
one  class,  courted  and  flattered  by  another.  She 
thought  of  Seton,  and  it  cannot  be  questioned  that 
she  felt  a  glow  of  satisfaction  that  she  had  excited 
one  pure,  disinterested  sentiment ;  and  a  secret  re 
gret  that  affection  was  in  its  nature  so  independent 
and  inflexible,  that,  though  she  would,  she  could  not 


236  CLARENCE;    OR 

love  him  who  so  well  deserved  her  love.  Then 
came  the  bitterest  reflection  of  all ;  her  fortune  had 
envenomed  the  shaft  that  wounded  Seton' s  peace. 

What  would  become  of  envy  and  covetousness. 
and  all  their  train  of  discontent,  evil,  and  sin,  if  the 
external  veil  were  lifted,  and  the  eye  could  pene 
trate  the  secrets  of  the  heart  ? 

Miss  Clarence  was  roused  from  a  long  reverie  to 
which  we  have  merely  given  the  clue,  by  a  notice 
that  Mr.  Seton  was  so  much  refreshed  as  to  be  able 
to  proceed  on  his  journey. 

Nothing  can  be  more  beautiful,  more  soothing 
and  refreshing,  than  the  coming  on  of  evening  after 
the  fierce  heat  of  one  of  our  midsummer  days.  It 
is  a  compensation  for  the  languor  and  exhaus 
tion  of  mid-day — or  rather  it  is  the  best  prepara 
tion  for  the  full  and  exquisite  enjoyment  of  the 
delicious  coolness,  the  deepening  shadows,  and  the 
fragrance  that  exhales  from  woods,  flowers,  and 
and  fields.  A  summer's  evening  in  the  country  is 
a  paradise  regained  ;  but,  alas  !  evil  spirits  could 
leap  the  bounds  of  paradise  ;  and  melancholy  inter 
posed  her  black  pall  between  poor  Seton  and  the 
outward  world.  In  vain  did  Gertrude  point  out 
the  rich  hills  and  valleys  of  Oneida— the  almost 
boundless  view  of  a  country  so  recently  redeemed 
from  savages  and  savage  wildness,  and  now  rich, 
populous,  and  cultivated.  He  scarcely  raised  his 
heavy  eye-lids ;  and  his  faint  and  irrelevant  replies 
indicated  that  his  brain  was  already  touched  by  his 
disease. 

All  other  interest  was  now  lost  in  anxiety  to  reach 
Trenton ;  and  after  as  rapid  a  drive,  as  roads,  at  their 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  237 

best  indifferent,  would  permit,  they  arrived  at  the 

*  rural  resort,'  the  neat  inn  in  the  vicinity  of  the  falls. 
Fortunately  there  were  no  visiters  there  at  the  mo 
ment  of  our  travellers'  arrival,  and  they  had  an  op 
portunity    of  selecting   their   apartments,    and   for 
Seton,  the  most  retired  and  commodious  one  the 
house  afforded,  to  which  he  was  borne  in  the  arms 
of  his  attendants. 

The  consciousness  of  sacrificing  one's  private  in 
clinations  and  comforts  for  the  good  of  another  is 
always  pleasant  to  a  benevolent  mind ;  and  Mr. 
Clarence,  whom  nothing  but  an  errand  of  kindness 
would  have  tempted  from  his  home  to  a  gathering- 
place,  was  in  unexpected  good  spirits.  He  already 

*  felt   quite  renewed  by   his  journey.'     *  Gertrude 
looked  better  than  he  had  seen  her  for  six  months.' 
'  He  was  sure  Louis  wanted  nothing  but  a  little  rest/ 
He  was  delighted  with  the  deep  retirement  and  ru~ 
ralities  of  the   situation,  and   '  charmed   with   the 
neatness,   civility,  and  quiet  of  the  house.'     The 
last  quality  was  not  of  long  duration.     One  or  two 
stage-coaches  arrived,  and  the  consequent  and  ine 
vitable  bustle  ensued.     The  guests  were  judiciously 
disposed  in  a  part  of  the  house  as  remote  as  pos 
sible   from  that   occupied  by  Mr.   Clarence ;  and 
Gertrude  passed  the  evening  in  her  father's  apart 
ment,    reading   aloud   to   him,    according   to    her 
usual  custom.     The  lecture  was   of  course  inter 
rupted  by  Mr.   Clarence'  frequent  visits  to  Seton's 
room.     His  mind  was  still  wandering,  and  his  fever 
increasing ;  but  after  a  while,  a  powerful  opiate  took 
effect,  and  he  sunk  into  an  unquiet,  artificial  sleep, 
His  attendant,  however,  reported  that  he  was  doing1 


•238  CLARENCE;  OR 

well,  and   Gertrude,   after  giving  her  last  minute 
directions,  bade  her  father  '  good  night.' 

As  she  shut  the  door  of  his  apartment,  her  book 
in  one  hand,   and  lamp  in  the  other,  her  foot  was 
entangled  in  the  cloak   of  a  gentleman  who  was 
standing  muffled  in  the  little  gallery.     In  extrica 
ting  herself  from  the  awkward  embarrassment,  her 
lamp  fell.     The  gentleman  recovered  it,  and  grace 
fully  apologizing  for  the  accident,  he  relighted  the 
lamp  by  the  lantern  suspended  in  the  gallery.     This 
was  an  operose  business.     The  cloak  encumbered 
him,  he  threw  it  aside,  and  Gertrude  could  not  but 
notice,  with  a  curiosity  stimulated  by  the  conceal- 
raent   for    which   the   cloak   had    obviously    been 
worn — for  nothing  could  be   more  agreeably  tem 
pered  than    the    atmosphere — the  fine  figure   and 
classic  head  thus  accidentally  and  unintentionally 
disclosed.     Every  one  knows  how  slow  and  almost 
impossible  the  process   of   ignition   appears  when 
waited  for.     The  gentleman  made  some  common 
place,  but,  as   Gertrude  thought,   pleasant  remark 
about  it,  which  was  suddenly  cut  off  by  a  servant, 
who  came  up  the  stairs  and  whispered  to  him.     He 
returned  the  lamp   to  Miss  Clarence,  bowed,  and 
hurried  away.     She  turned  to  inquire  the  stranger's 
name  of  the  servant,  but  half  ashamed  of  her  curi 
osity,  she  hesitated,  and  while  she  hesitated,  he  dis 
appeared. 

Gertrude  then  went  to  her  own  apartment. 
After  remaining  there  a  while,  she  missed  her 
keys,  and  recollecting  she  had  left  the  bag  that 
contained  them  in  the  parlor,  she  went  down  stairs 

in  quest  of  them.     As  she  approached  the  parlor 
* 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     239 

door  which  stood  a-jar,  she  heard  voices  in  low  and 
earnest  conversation.  She  listened  ;  one  was  Mrs. 
Layton,  her  heart  beat,  and  she  sprang  forward, 
and  again  stopped,  for  she  perceived  that  her 
friend  was  deeply  absorbed  in  a  tete  a  tete,  evi 
dently  private,  with  the  stranger  whom  she  had 
met  in  the  gallery.  They  had  been  quite  too  much 
interested  in  their  own  affairs  to  hear  Miss  Clarence" 
light  tread,  and  there  being  no  light  in  the  passage, 
she  stood  for  a  moment  without  the  fear  of  observa 
tion.  Mrs.  Layton  leant  against  the  window,  her 
handkerchief  at  her  eyes,  and  her  back  to  the  light, 
which  fell  strongly  on  the  stranger's  face.  His  fine 
features  were  kindled  with  a  glow  of  earnest  feeling, 
he  spoke  in  a  tone  of  mingled  supplication  and  re 
monstrance.  '  Such  a  man  could  scarcely  speak 
in  vain,'  thought  Gertrude,  as  she  turned  away,  and 
stole  back  to  her  own  apartment.  There  she  re 
volved  in  her  own  mind  the  probable  meaning  of 
Mrs.  Layton's  unexpected  appearance  at  Trenton — 
the  obscure  intimations  in  relation  to  Emilie  in  her 
farewell  note — this  private  interview  with  the  elegant 
stranger — the  Utica  scrawl ;  and  she  would  pro 
bably  have  arrived  at  the  right  exposition,  if  that 
had  not  involved  Mrs.  Layton  in  deep  reproach. 
Of  course,  that  was  rejected ;  and  after  going  round, 
in  the  same  circle,  she  gave  up  the  subject  as 
inexplicable,  and  resigned  her  mind  to  the  sweet 
fancies  awakened  by  a  dewy  moonlight  evening. 

Gertrude  Clarence,  in  daylight,  and  amidst  the  > 
real  affairs  of  life,  was  truly  what  Mrs.  Layton  had 
called  her,  a  fit  heroine  for  the  nineteenth  century ; 
practical,  efficient,  direct,  and  decided — a  rational 


240  CLARENCE;  OR 

woman — that  beau-ideal  of  all  devotees  to  the  ruling 
spirit  of  the  age — utility.  But  it  must  be  confessed 
she  had  certain  infirmities  of  olden  and  romantic 
times  clinging  to  her ;  that  she  loved  in  moonlight 
and  retirement,  to  abandon  herself  to  the  visions  of 
iier  imagination ;  that  she  sought  and  loved  the 
beauty  and  mystery  of  nature ;  that  she  gave  her 
faith  to  the  poetry  of  life — the  sublime  virtue  that  is 
sometimes  manifested  in  actual  human  existence, — 
and  that  always  visits  the  dreams  of  the  enthusiast, 
as  the  fair  forms  of  their  divinities  were  presented  to 
the  inspired  vision  of  the  Grecian  sculptors. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Is't  possible  that  on  so  little  acquaintance  you  should   lik» 
Her  1 — that  but  seeing-  you  should  love  her?" 

As  YOU  LIKE  IT, 

WE  have  violated  the  consecrated  privacy  in 
which  Miss  Clarence  sheltered  her  romantic  taste, 
to  prepare  our  readers  for  a  sally  that  might  other 
wise  appear  extravagant.  It  was  a  night  to  call 
forth  all  the  secret  correspondencies  between  the 
spirit  and  the  outward  world  ;  a  night  when  the 
soul  responds  harmonious  to  the  voice  of  nature ; 
when  the  intellectual  life,  that  like  the  electric  prin 
ciple,  pervades  the  material  world,  becomes  visible 
and  audible,  is  seen  in  the  starry  depths  of  heaven, 
and  speaks  in  the  '  viewless  air.'  It  was  a  night — 
just  such  as  every  body  has  seen,  though  perchance 
not  thus  marked — in  midsummer,  sweet,  bright,  and 
soft.  There  had  been  a  slight  shower,  and  the 
atmosphere  was  charged  with  the  perfume  of  all  the 
wild  flowers  that  abound  in  the  forest  in  June — the 
month  of  flowers.  The  clouds  had  broken  away 
and  dispersed,  save  here  and  there  a  few  light 
silvery  forms,  that  as  they  melted  away  in  the  moon 
light,  seemed  the  very  coinage  of  the  brain,  shaped 
in  fancy's  changing  mould ;  now  winged  spirits, 
now  graces  wreathing  themselves  in  flowers ;  now 
fairies  at  their  elfin  gambols,  and  now — nothing. 
On  such  a  night  it  is  treason  against  nature  to 
steep  the  senses  in  sleep ;  voluntarily  to  close  the 

VOL.  L  21 


242  CLARENCE;  OR 

natural  entrances  to  all  this  glory;  at  least,  so 
thought  Gertrude,  and  obeying  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  threw  on  her  shawl,  and  creeping  softly  down 
stairs,  she  entered  the  apartmenj  where  the  only 
member  of  the  family  who  was  out  of  bed,  was 
drowsily  adjusting  his  ledger.  "  I  am  going  down 
to  the  falls,"  she  said. 

"  Miss!  you'll  see  them  far  plainer  by  daylight." 
Gertrude  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  explain 
the  advantage  of  the  claire  obscure,  and  simply 
requested  a  lamp  might  be  left  standing  in  the 
entry  for  her.  The  man  assented  without  express 
ing  any  inconvenient  curiosity  or  surprise.  The 
head  of  the  financial  department  of  the  <  rural  re 
sort'  was  a  little  ancient  gentleman,  (gentleman  by 
courtesy — illimitable  republican  courtesy!)  who 
trudged  on  in  his  narrow  walk  of  life  without  look 
ing  to  the  right  or  left  to  scan  the  motives,  or  even 
observe  the  conduct  of  his  fellow-travellers.  That 
a  lady  should  desire  to  see  the  falls  by  moonlight, 
appeared  to  him  no  more  strange  than  that  she 
should  wish  to  view  them  by  daylight.  If  he 
valued  falls,  it  was  as  <  water  privileges ;'  and  the 
only  '  view'  he  took  of  picturesque  objects  was  of 
their  effect  on  the  bright  side  of  the  landlord's 
ledger.  Gertrude,  therefore,  happily  escaped  a 
remonstrance,  and  soon  found  herself  in  the  little 
path  traversing  the  deep  wood  which  borders  the 
precipitous  bank  of  the  West  Canada  creek— a  nar 
row,  deeply  embedded  stream,  that  after  winding, 
leaping,  and  foaming  in  its  unnoticed  solitude  for 
centuries,  has,  within  the  last  few  years,  become  one 
of  the  staple  curiosities  of  the  country. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  243 

Miss  Clarence  had  passed  a  few  weeks  of  the  pre 
ceding  summer  at  Trenton,  and  was  secure  in  her 
familiarity  with  the  forest-paths.  It  seemed  as  if  all 
nature  were  hushed  in  silence  to  listen  to  the  music 
of  the  dashing  waters.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stir 
ring.  The  leaves  reposed  in  the  still  atmosphere. 
The  moon  looked  as  if  she  were  immoveably  set  in 
the  far,  cloudless  depths  of  the  heavens,  and  where 
her  rays  stole  in  through  the  lofty  branches,  and 
slept  on  the  moss-grown  trunks,  or  dewy  herbage, 
not  the  slightest  quivering  of  the  leaves  broke  or 
varied  the  clear  defined  outline  of  the  bright  spaces. 
There  is  something  vast  and  oppressive  in  such  im 
mobility  and  stillness,  and  Gertrude  felt,  in  ap 
proaching  the  brawling,  noisy,  little  stream,  as  if  it 
were  a  living  soul — a  being  endowed  with  feeling 
and  sympathy,  and  voice  to  speak  them.  She  ra 
pidly  descended  the  several  flights  of  steps,  that  af 
ford  but  a  slippery  and  inconvenient  passage  down 
a  precipitous  rock  of  a  hunbred  feet  in  height- — so 
grudgingly  does  art  seem  to  have  lent  her  aid  to  her 
mistress  nature — but  here  nature  may  well  scoff  at 
her  handmaid's  negligence,  for  here  she  reigns  a 
queen  of  beauty  ;  every  heart  does  her  homage  ; 
every  heart !  the  very  trees,  as  they  bend  from  the 
walled  banks  and  almost  embower  the  sportive 
stream,  seem  in  the  act  of  reverence. 

Gertrude  pursued  the  usual  walk  along  the  mar 
gin  of  the  stream,  now  passing  with  security  over 
the  broad,  flat  rocks,  and  now  cautiously  creeping 
around  the  jutting  buttresses,  whose  bases  are  fretted 
by  the  foaming  torrent,  and  whose  sides  afford  a  pe 
rilous  passage  along  a  shelving  ledge,  scarcely  wide 


244  CLARENCE;    OR 

enough  for  a  heron's  foot.  Fortunately,  Gertrude 
had  none  of  the  physical  sensitiveness  that  renders- 
some  persons  incapable  of  approaching  a  rapid 
stream  without  dizziness.  Self-possessed,  and  sure 
footed,  she  passed  the  most  difficult  passages  without 
fear  and  without  danger.  She  ascended  to  the  summit  of 
the  first  fall  by  the  natural  and  rough  stair-way,  and 
pursuing  her  walk,  canopied  by  the  over-arching 
rocks,  and  creeping  along  the  shelving  shore,  she 
attained  the  side  of  the  foaming,  deep  abyss,  into 
which  the  stream  rushes  at  two  bold  leaps.  She  stood 
for  some  moments  gazing  on  the  torrent,  and  almost 
deafened  by  its  roar,  when  she  was  startled  by  a 
footstep  close  to  her.  She  turned,  and  saw  the 
stranger  who  seemed,  that  evening,  destined  to  cross 
her  path  at  every  turn.  He  bowed  respectfully,  and 
said  he  had  not  expected  the  pleasure  of  meeting  any 
one  at  that  extraordinary  hour — but  he  added,  '  no 
hour  could  be  more  fit  for  a  devotee  to  nature  to  vi 
sit  her  sanctuary.* 

Gertrude  thought  there  was  something  like  a  sar 
castic  smile  playing  about  his  lip,  as  if  his  reading 
of  '  a  devotee  to  nature,'  was  l  a  mighty  romantic 
young  lady,'  a  construction  she  felt  was  warranted , 
but  a  light  in  which  she  did  not  quite  like  to  appear. 

"  Neither  did  I,"  siie  said,  returning  the  stranger's 
smile,  "  think  of  the  possibility  of  meeting  any  one 
this  evening.  I  came  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  see 
ing  the  falls  by  moon-light — by  all  other  lights  1 
am  familiar  with  them." 

"  But  no  other  light  can,  "  replied  the  stranger, 
"be  so  well  adapted  to  them.  Broad  day  light,  and 
a  party  of  exclaiming,  professed  admirers  of  scene 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     245 

ry,  convert  the  most  poetic  passages  into  dull 
prose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Gertrude,  pleased  with  a  feeling  so 
exactly  corresponding  with  her  own.  "  Solitude 
and  moon-light  are  certainly  the  best  accompani 
ments  to  fine  scenery.  They  are  like  the  vehicle 
of  music  to  the  inspirations  of  the  poet." 

"  And  this  is  fine  scenery,"  said  the  stranger;  "  1 
have  been  scrambling  along  the  bank  for  two  miles 
above  this  place,  and  never  have  I  seen  such  va 
rious  and  startling  beauty.  The  river  has  so  ma 
ny  abrupt  turns,  and  graceful  sweeps  —  at  every 
step  there  is  a  new  picture,  as  if  you  had  turned  ano 
ther  leaf  in  the  book  of  nature.  I  have  seen  three 
falls,  above  this,  of  less  magnitude,  and  I  have  been 
told  they  occur,  at  intervals,  for  several  miles.  But 
the  falls  are  only  one  feature.  The  sides  of  the 
stream  are  varied  and  every  where  beautiful.  In 
some  places  richly  wooded  ;  in  others,  stern,  bare, 
perpendicular  rocks  —  now  sending  over  their  beet 
ling  summits  a  little  cascade,  that  falls  at  your  feet 
in  diamond  drops,  and  then  crested  with  a  hanging- 
cedar  that  waves  like  a  warrior's  plume  —  rnow  reced 
ing  and  sloping,  and  mantled  with  moss  and  fern,  or 
sending  out  from  their  clefts,  sturdy  trees  —  sylvan 
sentinels  on  nature's  battlements.  In  one  place  the 
rocks  recede  and  are  concave,  and  the  river  appears 
like  an  imprisoned  lake,  or  a  magician's  well,  - 
there,  1  confess,  I  listened  for  an  '  open  sessime,1 
and  thought  it  possible  I  might  see  an  enchanted 
damsel,  walk  forth,  with  her  golden  pitcher." 

"  But  you  saw  none,"  said  Gertrude.  "  Ours 
is  not  the  country  of  enchantments  —  nature  is  merely 
21* 


246  CLARENCE;  OK 

nature  here.  Neither  enriched  nor  embellished , 
nor  rendered  sublime  by  traditionary  tales,  nor  su 
pernatural  graces,  or  terrors." 

"  No,  thank  heaven,  no  terrors.  I  was  never 
better  pleased  than  now,  with  living  in  a  country 
where  a  lady  may  walk  forth,  at  midnight,  without 
fear  or  danger." 

Gertrude  felt  the  awkwardness  of  her  position, 
the  moment  it  was  alluded  to,  and  she  rather  ab 
ruptly  asked  the  stranger,  '  if  he  had  ever  seen 
Niagara  ?' 

'  He  was  ashamed  to  confess  he  had  not.  It  wa? 
the  fashion,'  he  said,  •  to  compare  Trenton  to  Nia 
gara,  but  he  thought  Trenton  must  be  about  a? 
much  like  Niagara,  as  a  frolicsome  child  was  like 
to  Hercules,  or  the  finite  to  the  infinite.' 

"  And  yet,"  said  Gertrude,  "  I  hear  the  com 
parison  often  made,  and  Trenton  often  preferred. 
She  is  a  younger  favorite  and  has  the  advantage 
of  youth  and  novelty  over  the  sublime  torrent.  She 
has  not  been  heard  of  by  every  body  in  the  four 
quarters  of  the  globe ;  nor  seen  and  talked  of  by 
half  the  world.  We  feel  something  of  the  pride 
of  discoverers  in  vaunting  her  beauty.  She  has 
too,  her  caprices  and  changes,  and  does  not  show 
the  same  face  to  all.  This  is  one  of  her  peculiar 
charms.  There  is  such  a  pleasure  in  saying,  *  Oli 
what  a  pity  you  did  not  see  the  falls  as  we  did  !* 
and  *  ah,'  with  a  shrug,  l  we  but  just  escaped  with 
our  lives.  There  had  immense  rains  fallen,  and  the 
passes  were  all  but  impassable.'  There  are  no 
such  lucky  chances  of  superiority  at  Niagara.  Like 
a  monarch,  Niagara  always  appears  in  the  samr 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     247 

state  and  magnificence.  It  pays  no  visible  tribute 
to  the  elements  ;  it  is  neither  materially  abated  nor 
augmented  by  them.  Niagara  is  like  the  ocean, 
alone  and  incomparable  in  its  grandeur."  It  was 
apparent  that  Gertrude  had  seen  Niagara,  and 
the  stranger  naturally  asked  her  many  questions  in 
relation  to  it.  From  Niagara  he  adverted  to  kin 
dred  topics.  Not  a  water-fall,  natural  bridge,  or 
mountain-resort,  was  passed  by,  till  the  meeting 
was  protracted  to  the  last  limit  of  propriety.  There 
is  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  meeting  with  a  stranger 
who  discovers  at  once  kindred  tastes  and  feelings 
with  our  own.  If  it  be  a  single  sentiment,  it  is 
sometimes  like  a  word  in  the  '  correspondencies,5  of 
a  certain  mystical  sect,  which  may  be  a  key  to  a 
whole  volume.  Acquaintance  makes  rapid  strides 
in  such  circumstances ;  and  it  was  not  singular  that 
the  stranger,  whose  imagination  was  no  doubt 
Stimulated  by  the  time  and  place  of  their  encounter, 
should  linger  in  Gertrude's  presence.  He  felt  there 
was  no  propriety  in  detaining  her  any  longer,  if 
she  intended  to  prosecute  her  walk ;  nor,  much  as 
he  desired  to  do  it,  could  he,  after  her  declaration, 
that  she  had  come  out  for  a  solitary  stroll,  offer  to 
attend  her  ;  and  inwardly  praying  she  might  say 
no,  he  asked  if  she  meant  to  proceed  farther.  She 
answered — for  she  was  not  in  the  palace  of  truth, 
nor  dared  she  follow  her  inclinations — *  yes,'  and  the 
stranger,  with  evident  reluctance,  bade  her  good 
night,  and  soon  disappeared. 

Gertrude  now  proceeded  very  slowly  up  the  next 
acclivity.      The  walk  had  lost  its  charms.      Her 


248  CLARENCE;    OR 

mind  was  entirely  occupied  with  the  stranger, 
and  with  conjectures  who  he  could  be.  '  He  did 
not  seem,'  she  thought,  '  to  remember  our  first 
meeting  this  evening;  his  mind  must  have  been  in 
tent  on  his  approaching  interview  with  Mrs.  Lav- 
ton.  If  I  had  had  but  one  glance  at  him,  I  should 
never  have  forgotten  him.'  She  pondered  over  his 
interview  with  Mrs.  Layton.  *  Could  he  be  her 
husband  ?  No,  he  was  far  too  young.  Could  he 
be  Emilie's  lover  ?  No,  such  a  lover  could  never 
need  the  interposition  of  parental  authority.'  Sud 
denly,  and  at  the  thought  she  stopped  stock  still, 
it  occurred  to  her  that  he  wonderfully  resembled  the 
image  of  Gerald  Roscoe,  impressed  on  her  mind  by 
her  father's  often  repeated  descriptions.  She  passed 
the  stranger's  features  in  review :  his  dark  com 
plexion,  bold  expanded  forehead,  singularly  black 
hair,  a  stature  and  form  cast  in  the  heroic  mould ; 
the  prevailing  darkness  of  his  face,  relieved  by  a 
smile  that  disclosed  a  set  of  as  white  and  beautiful 
teeth  as  ever  decorated  a  mouth.  '  How  often  has 
my  father  said,'  thought  Gertrude,  *  that  Gerald's 
smile  was  electrifying ;'  that  it  was  *  like  the  sun 
bursting  through  a  cloud — a  smile  of  intelligence,, 
arch,  sportive,  and  good-humored.'  *  Could  this 
stranger  be  described  more  accurately  ?' 

Gertrude  was  startled  and  roused  from  her  reve 
rie  by  what  she  fancied  to  be  a  strain  of  music.  It 
seemed  wafted  over  the  torrent,  and  not  mingling 
with  its  din,  as  if  the  breathing  of  some  spirit  above 
her.  There  was  no  visible  agent.  '  Am  I  deceived 
by  the  solitude,  the  scene,  the  hour,  or  is  it  an  un 
earthly  sound,  ?'  thought  she.  She  looked  timidly 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     249 

around,  and  as  she  listened,  the  strain  sounded 
familiar.  "  It  cannot  be  !"  she  exclaimed,  and  yet 
impelled  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she  sprang  for 
ward  in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  came. 
«  Should  it  be  he !"  she  cried  fearfully,  and  hurry- 
ing  through  a  tangled  path,  she  came  out  on  a 
broad  projecting  rock,  that  although  a  few  feet  be 
low  the  summit  of  the  lower  fall,  commanded  a  full 
view  of  it.  On  that  summit  stood  a  figure  enveloped 
in  a  white  dress,  and  so  shaded  by  branches,  that 
hung  like  banners  over  the  glittering  waters,  that 
it  was  impossible  to  say  whether  the  figure  were 
man  or  woman  ;  whether  it  were  human,  or  some 
strange  visitant  from  another  world.  While  Ger 
trude  gazed  fearfully,  the  person  advanced  to  the 
brink  of  the  water,  threw  the  flute  into  the  torrent, 
bent  over  it,  and  clasped  his  hands  as  if  in  prayer. 
"  Louis ! — Louis  Seton  !  oh,  God  of  mercy,  save 
him!"  shrieked  Gertrudp.  The  scream  uf  agony 
reached  his  ear,  and  arrested  him  ;  he  looked  wildly 
around.  She  reiterated  her  cries  and  waved  her 
handkerchief.  He  saw  her  and  descended  the  clifl 
towards  her  so  swiftly  and  recklessly  that  she  co 
vered  her  eyes  in  terror,  lest  she  should  see  him 
plunge  into  the  abyss. 

As  he  drew  near,  she  ventured  again  to  look  at 
him.  His  cheeks  were  crimsoned  with  fever,  his 
eyes  had  a  supernatural  brightness,  his  fair  brow 
was  as  pale  as  marble,  and  his  long  flaxen  hair, 
which  had  at  all  times  a  sentimental  and  student- 
like  air,  was  in  the  wildest  disorder.  He  had  care 
lessly  thrown  over  his  under  garments  a  white  dress 
ing-gown,  and  his  whole  appearance  confirmed 


260 


CLARENCE;    OR 


Gertrude  in  her  first  impression,  that  he  was  delirious. 
But  when  he  said,  in  his  usual  low-toned  gentle 
voice,  "You  called  me — did  you  not,  Gertrude?" 
she  replied,  half  reassured,  and  still  half  doubtful, 
;'Yes;  I  feared  you  were  venturing  too  near  the 
fall,  and,"  she  added,  with  a  smile  of  admirable  self- 
possession,  "  I  thought  myself  fortunate  to  meet  you 
just  at  the  very  moment  I  was  returning  home 
ward,  and  dreading  to  retrace  the  way  alone." 

"  Oh,  do  not  go  yet !  Why  go  away  from  this 
beautiful  scene  ?  Jt  is  a  glimpse  of  heaven;  I  will 
never  leave  it  but  for  a  brighter,"  he  added,  in  atone 
of  unwonted  decision  and  confidence  ;  "Sit  down 
on  this  rock,  Gertrude — I  did  not  expect  this — this 
is  the  first  blissful  hour  of  my  life.  Do  not  look  so 
terrified — this  is  the  gate  of  heaven— you  shall  see 
how  I  will  throw  off  the  load  of  life,  and  leap 
through  it ;  Oh,  it  was  very  good  of  you,  to  come 

Ollt  tO  See  tills— conie,  sit  down!" 

There  was  something  irresistibly  appealing,  and 
affecting  in  his  manner,  and  Gertrude  smothered  her 
fears  and  sat  down ;  "I  dreamed,"  he  continued, 
"  an  angel  would  show  me  the  way — it's  very 
strange — I  cannot  account  for  it  ;"  he  passed  his 
hand  over  his  brow,  like  one  who  would  disentangle 
his  recollections,  "Jjdo  not  think,  Gertrude,  it  ever 
occurred  to  me,  that  you  were  to  be  that  angel." 

"  But  I  am,"  said  Gertrude,  rising,  and  hoping 
to  govern  him,  by  humoring  his  wild  fancies,  "I 
am,  and  you  are  bound  to  follow  whither  I  lead. 
Come,  we  must  hasten  home,  Louis — follow  me,  I 
intreat  you."  He  rose  and  followed,  half-singing, 
and  half-screaming. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     251 

•  This  will  not  do,  I  am  exciting  his  delirium/ 
thought  Gertrude  ;  and  stopping  suddenly,  she  said,, 
with  all  the  composure  she  could  command,  "  I 
ought,  indeed,  to  be  an  angel  to  flit  over  these 
rocks  at  this  unearthly  rate.  We  had  best  return  to 
our  every-day  characters,  Louis  ;  it  is  childish  to 
risk  our  lives,  in  this  foolish  way." 

Her  natural  tone  and  manner,for  a  moment,  restored 
Seton  to  himself,  and  his  thoughts  reverted  to  their  ac 
customed  channel.  "  It  is  then  a  delusion,"  he  said 
i«  yes — yes,  life  is  a  delusion — hope  a  delusion — and 
yet,  who  can  live  without  hope  ?  I  cannot,  and  why 
should  I,  passively,  remain  here  to  suffer  ?  Ger 
trude,  did  you  see  my  flute,  as  it  silently  floated 
away  ?  but  a  moment  before,  the  woods  rung 
with  the  music,  my  troubled  heart  poured  into  it. 
Think  you,  Gertrude,  it  would  be  as  easy  to  still 
that  heart,  as  the  poor  instrument?" 

"  But  the  heart  is  not  yours,  Louis,"  said  Ger 
trude,  assuming  a  playfulness,  difficult  to  affect, 
while  she  was  in  a  panic  ;  "  you  gave  me  your 
heart,  you  know,  and  you  have  no  right  to  resume 
it." 

"  Yes,  I  gave  it  to  you,  Gertrude,  and  it  was  a 
good  gift — a  true  loving  heart — but  you  would  not 
take  it — you  could  not — you  know  you  said  so — 
but,  one  thing  I  tell  you,  Miss  Clarence,  you  will 
go  forth  into  the  world,  you  will  be  sought,  and 
flattered,  and  you  will  learn,  from  bitter  experience, 
the  value  of  a  true,  faithful  heart — no  wealth  can 
buy  it — wealth  !  wealth  !  that  was  a  cruel  letter  ;  it 
was  the  last  drop  in  the  cup.  Gertrude,  I  felt  as  if 


CLARENCE;    OR 

I  were  going  mad,  yesterday — but  I  am  well,  quite 
well,  now." 

Gertrude  became  more  alarmed,  at  every  new  in- 
coherency ;  and  felt  her  total  helplessness,  should 
he  again  attempt  the  violence  on  himself,  he  had 
purposed.  It  struck  her,  that  she  might,  possibly, 
lure  him  onward,  by  addressing  his  love  of  his  art, 
next  to  his  love  for  her,  his  strongest  passion  ; 
without  replying,  or  adverting,  to  any  thing  he  had 
said.  "  Come,  Louis  !"  she  exctaimed,  "  we  are 
wasting  time — you  promised  me,  some  moon-light 
sketches  of  the  falls  ;  and,  farther  on,  there  is  a 
beautiful  view — if  we  do  not  hasten,  we  shall  lose 
the  best  light  for  it.  She  walked  at  as  quick  a  pace 
as  she  dared  ;  and  Seton,  obedient  as  a  bird  to  his 
lady's  whistle,  followed  her.  They  proceeded  on 
their  return,  beyond  the  first  fall ;  and  Gertrude 
meant  to  lead  him  on,  without  alluding  again  to  the 
view,  but  his  painter's  eye,  as  it  rolled  from  shore  to 
shore,  caught  the  point  of  sight.  "  Ah  !  here  it  is," 
he  said,  "  beautiful  as  a  painter's  dream — but  I 
have  no  port-folio,  no  paper — never  mind,  I  can 
draw  on  the  impalpable  air.  I  will  put  you  in  the 
fore-ground — you  were  in  the  fore- ground  of  all 
my  pictures — my  air-drawn  pictures,"  he  added,  with 
a  faint  smile. 

"  But  I  must  have  a  picture,  that  I  can  see — here, 
take  my  handkerchief — you  can  make  a  perpendicu 
lar  and  a  horizontal  line,  and  write  light  and  sha 
dow,  that  is  enough,  you  kno\v,  for  an  artist's 
sketch." 

He  kissed  the  handkerchief  devoutly,  spread  it  on 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  253 

bis  knee,  took  a  pencil  from  his  pocket,  and  contem 
plated  the  scene  intently  ;  the  preparation  for  an  ha- 
habitual  occupation,  restored  for  a  time,  the  equili 
brium  of  his  mind  ;  his  thoughts  returned  to  their 
natural  channel.  "  Such  scenes  as  these,"  he  said, 
•"  are  the  despair  of  the  painter." 

"  Why  the  despair  ?  you  never  fail  in  your  water 
views.  Mrs.  Lay  ton  said  she  was  afraid  to  let  Ar 
gus  see  your  picture  of  the  lake,  lest  he  should  try 
to  lap  the  water." 

"Ah,  that  was  sleeping  water ;  but  who  can 
paint  this  beautiful  motion — this  sound,  the  voice 
of  the  waterfall — the  spray,  the  most  etherial  of  all 
material  things — the  light  mist  rising,  and  floating 
around  those  over-hanging  woods,  like  the  drapery 
of  spirits,  made  visible  to  mortal  sense  ?" 

"  But  you  can  imitate  the  most  exquisite  tints  of 
flowers  ;  arid  surely,  you  can  paint  these  wild  gera 
niums,  and  blue-bells." 

"  Yes,  I  can  imitate  them  ;  but  in  the  still  picture, 
will  they  speak  to  us  as  they  do  now,  looking  out  in 
wild  and  tender  beauty,  from  the  crevices  of  these 
stupendous  rocks  ?  I  can  paint  the  vines  that  rich 
ly  fringe  those  beetling  crags',  I  might  attempt  their 
expression  of  security  ;  but  can  I  give  their  light 
fantastic  grace,  their  brightening  and  deepening  hues, 
as  they  wave  in  the  gentlest  breath  of  heaven  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  certainly  not!  you  cannot  make  all  the 
elements  of  nature  tributary  to  your  art ;  you  can 
not  work  miracles ;  you  can  but  repeat  in  the  pic 
ture,  one  aspect  of  the  scene.  You  can  give  the 
deep  amber  tint  of  the  water,  but  not  every  varying 
shade  it  takes  from  the  passing  clouds.  .You  can 

VOL.  I.  22 


254  CLARENCE;  OR 

imitate  these  wild,  broken  shores,  but  not  the  musi 
cal  trickling  of  the  drops,  as  they  swell,  and  fall 
from  ledge  to  ledge.  A  picture  is,  of  course,  dumb 
nature  ;  it  addresses  but  one  sense  ;  it  is  what  you 
can  do,  that  constitutes  the  glory  of  your  art ;  &nd  it 
is  a  weakness,  Louis,  to  dwell  on  what  you  cannot 

do." 

Gertrude  had  unwarily  touched  the  wrong  key. 
Seton  sprang  to  his  feet — "  a  weakness,  is  it  Ger 
trude  ?  do  you  reproach  me  with  my  weakness  ? — 
Yes,  it  is  the  extreme  of  weakness ;  but  I  have  strug 
gled  against  it — far,  far  worse,  I  have  quietly  endur 
ed  it :  I  will  not  longer — why  should  I  ?  The  world 
cares  not  for  me ;  nor  I  for  the  world.  I  have  float 
ed  on  its  dark,  troubled  surface,  like  those  bubbles 
on  the  stream — they  dissolve  and  are  forgotten.  So 
shall  I  be." 

He  spoke  with  the  resolute  tone  of  despair.  Ger 
trude's  heart  sunk  within  her ;  but  calling  forth  all 
her  courage,  she  said,  "  I  agree  with  you,  Louis ; 
the  world  has  dark,  tiresome  passages  enough  ;  but 
even  the  worst  of  them,  like  our  rugged  path  here, 
may  be  cheered  by  a  light  from  above.  The  light 
always  shines.  Cannot  you  open  your  bosom  to  it?" 
"  Gertrude !"  he  replied,  with  a  bitter  smile ; 
"  do  not  mock  me  :  tell  those  fretted  waters  to  give 
back  the  image  of  the  heavens,  serene  and  unbrok 
en  :  bid  the  stream  glide  quietly  over  these  sharp 
rocks  :  ask  that  solitary  pine  to  go  and  bend  among 
its  fellows.  It  is  far  easier  to  contend  with  nature, 
than  with  the  elements  of  the  soul.  I  am  wearied 
with  the  conflict.  I  have  struggled,  and  I  am  sub 
dued.  I  have  had  such  horrid  dreams.  My  cruel 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     255 

brother  grinning  at  me — the  world's  laugh  and 
scorn  ringing  in  my  ears — your  voice,  louder  than 
all  the  rest." 

"Do  not  think  of  it — it  was  a  dream — nothing 
but  a  dream,  Louis." 

"  Yes  it  was  a  dream  :  and  now  you  speak  to 
me  in  your  own  kind  voice — this  is  reality."  He 
took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  scorchiug  lips  : 
"  I  have  heard  the  parting  spirit  had  always  some 
intimation  of  the  future — of  good,  or  evil :  this  is 
good — this  is  light  to  my  heart :  I  have  no  more 
fear.  Farewell — farewell !"  Again  and  again  he 
kissed  her  hand  :  "  it  is  over  now,  Gertrude,"  and 
he  sprang  towards  the  rushing  stream. 

Gertrude  grasped  his  arm,  and,  shivering  with 
terror,  detained  him  forcibly.  "  Have  you  no  pity 
on  me,  Louis  ?  do  not  leave  me  here  alone  ;  at 
tend  me  round  these  dreadful  rocks  ;  I  shall  never 
get  back  to  my  father  without  your  help  ;  you  can 
return  directly.  Come,  do  not— do  not,"  she  con 
tinued,  imploringly,  "  refuse  me  this  last  kindness  ; 
come,  quickly."  She  moved  forward,  and  perceiv 
ing  that  he  followed,  she  ran  along  the  broken  shore, 
sprang  from  the  rolling  stones,  and  leaped  from 
crag  to  crag,  forgetful  of  all  dangers  but  one,  till 
she  came  to  the  last  projecting  rock,  where  the  foot 
hold  is  extremely  narrow,  and  rendered  most  peri 
lous  by  the  agitation  of  the  water,  which  at  times 
lashes  the  side  of  the  rock,  but  five  or  six  feet 
below  the  narrow  margin,  on  which  the  passen 
ger  treads,  in  a  position  not  quite  upright,  but 
rather  inclining  over  the  stream.  The  hazard  of 
this  passage  was  extreme,  Seton  still  followed  and 


256  CLARENCE  ;    OK 

was  close  to  her,  but  the  spell  that  had  controlled 
him  so  far,  might  break  at  any  moment.  The  in 
coherent  sounds  he  uttered  at  every  step,  now 
escaping  in  indistinct  murmurs,  and  then  swelling 
to  shrieks,  indicated,  too  truly,  -the  rapid  access 
of  his  delirium.  Gertrude's  courage  failed — a  ner 
vous  sickness  came  over  her — her  head  turned,  her 
feet  faltered,  and  she  retreated  a  few  steps,  and 
sunk  to  the  ground. 

It  was  but  a  momentary  weakness  ;  she  ejaculated 
a  prayer  for  resolution  and  strength,  and  sprang  to 
her  feet  again.  "  I  am  rested  now,*  Louis,"  she 
said ;  "  once  round  this  rock,  we  are  almost  home ; 
follow  me,  dear  Louis."  She  advanced  to  the  pe 
rilous  path,  and  proceeded  around  the  projecting 
cliff,  without  again  faltering. 

Seton  followed  to  the  front  of  the  rock  and  there 
stopped,  and  stood  fixed  and  immoveable,  as  if  he- 
were  part  of  it.  His  face  was  towards  Gertrude, 
but  his  eye  was  glazed  and  turned  upwards  :  it  ap 
peared  that  his  senses  were  paralyzed,  and  that  he 
neither  saw,  heard,  nor  felt ;  for  though  Gertrude 
urged,  supplicated,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  agony, 
he  maintained  the  same,  statue-like  stillness,  look 
ing  like  an  image  carved  in  the  rock,  before  which 
a  terror-struck  suppliant  was  standing.  Gertrude 
dared  not  advance  towards  him — his  position  did 
not  admit  assistance — and  the  slightest  movement, 
even  though  involuntary,  might  prove  fatal.  She 
cried  to  Heaven  for  aid,  but  while  the  unavailing 
prayer  was  on  her  Kps,  Seton  slipped  gently  from 
the  rock  into  the  current  below.  In  another  breath 
his  body  swept  past  her.  A  little  lower  down,  thf^ 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     257 

current  was  less  impetuous  ;  a  few  yards  lower  still 
it  was  broken  by  the  rocks  and  tossed  in  rapids.  He 
evidently  struggled  against  the  current.  "  Oh  I  he 
tries  to  save  himself,"  cried  Gertrude.  An  eddy 
seemed  to  favor  his  efforts,  and  impel  him  towards 
the  shore.  "  Merciful  God,  help  him  !"  she  scream 
ed,  and  sprang  forward,  in  the  hope  that  she 
might  herself  extend  some  aid ;  but,  instantly,  a 
counter-current  swept  him  off  towards  the  rapids, 
and  his  destruction  seemed  near  and  inevitable. 
Gertrude  gazed  after  him,  speechless,  motionless — 
as  if  awaiting  the  doom  of  fate.  Suddenly  there 
was  a  plash  in  the  water,  and  a  person  appeared 
approaching  the  descending  body.  "  Should  he 
resist — "  cried  Gertrude.  But  he  did  not  resist. 
It  was  at  the  calmest  and  most  favorable  point  in 
the  whole  stream  for  such  an  interposition,  and  pe 
rilous  as  it  was,  it  succeeded  ;  and  Seton,  who  had 
not  yet  quite  lost  his  consciousness,  was  drawn  in 
safety  to  the  rocks.  Gertrude  flew  to  him.  She 
knelt  beside  him,  and  dried  the  water  from  his  face 
and  neck  with  her  shawl.  His  preserver  was  ac 
tive  and  efficient.  He  supported  Seton' s  head  on 
his  breast,  and  chafed  his  hands  and  arms. 

Seton  was  for  a  few  moments  incapable  of  motion 
or  articulation,  but  he  looked  intelligently  at  Ger 
trude,  and  as  if  he  felt  to  the  heart's  core,  the  joy 
and  gratitude  that  lit  up  her  face  with  an  almost 
supernatural  brightness.  When  her  first  emotion 
gave  place  to  a  more  natural  tone  of  feeling,  she 
would  have  fainted — but  she  never  fainted :  she 
would  have  wept,  but  there  was  still  something  to 
be  done.  She  attempted  to  rise,  but  her  limbs  trem- 
2.2* 


258  CLARENCE;    OR 

bled  to  such  a  degree  as  to  be  useless.  "  I 
you  to  make  no  effort."  ,  Gertrude  started  at  the 
voice,  and,  for  the  first  time,  looking  at  Seton' s 
preserver,  she  perceived  he  was  the  stranger.  He 
smiled  at  the  sudden  recognition  apparent  on  her 
countenance.  "  I  have  been  lingering  at  the  steps 
here,"  he  said,  as  if  in  reply  to  her  looks,  "  detain 
ed  by  my  good  fortune  for  your  service.  You  are  suf 
fering  even  more  than  your  friend  from  this  acci 
dent."  And  so  she  appeared,  for  Seton  was  stimu 
lated  by  fever.  "  You  both  need  more  assistance 
than  I  alone  can  give  you.  I  will  go  for  aid,  and 
return  instantly." 

"Oh,  not  for  the  world,"  replied  Gertrude,  for 
she  felt  the  importance  to  Seton  of  keeping  the  ad 
venture  a  secret,  "  not  for  the  world,"  she  reiterated. 
She  perceived  the  stranger  smiled  archly  at  her 
earnestness,  and  she  guessed  at  his  interpretation, 
6  He  thinks  this,  no  doubt,  an  appointed  meeting  of 
lovers,  and  Louis'  fall  accidental ;  that  at  least 
is  a  happy  mistake.'  In  one  particular  she  was 
determined  to  rectify  his  misconception.  "  I  came 
here,"  she  continued,  "without  the  slightest  ex 
pectation  of  meeting  any  one.  I  therefore  can 
have  neither  reluctance  nor  fear  to  be  left  alone. 
This  foolish  trembling  will  be  over  in  a  few 
moments,  and  I  will  then  follow  you  if  you  will 
have  the  goodness  to  give  your  arm  to  my  friend — 
it  has  already  done  us  a  service  for  which  we  have 
no  words  to  thank  you." 

Seton  now  for  the  first  time  broke  silence  and 
attempted,  though  confused  and  embarrassed,,  to 
express  his  gratitude.  "  I  beg  you  not  to  waste 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     259 

your  strength  in  this  way,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I 
will  take  it  for  granted,  that  you  are  infinitely 
obliged  to  me,  for  a  service  that  cost  me  nothing 
but  a  little  wetting,  a  circumstance  not  altogether 
disagreeable  on  a  hot  evening.  I  really  have  not 
encountered  the  slightest  danger;  but  if  I  may 
make  a  merit  of  this  accidental  service,"  he  con 
tinued,  bowing  courteously  to  Miss  Clarence,  "I 
claim  the  right  to  return  and  escort  you,  after  I 
have  attended  your  friend." 

"  We  are  so  deeply  your  debtors,  that  you  may 
impose  your  own  conditions.  I  will  await  you  if 
necessary — or  meet  you." 

"  If  necessary !  pardon  me  then,  if  I  put  some 
constraint  on  your  courtesy.     The  evening  is  be 
coming  cool,  allow  me  to  wrap  my   cloak   about 
you ;  it  shall  be  fetters  and  warder  till  my  return." 
As  he  spoke,  he  took  his  cloak  from  the  ground 
where   he  had  hastily  thrown   it,   amk  adjusted   it 
around  Miss  Clarence.     At  another  time  Gertrude 
might  have  felt  a  girlish  and  natural  diffidence  at 
receiving  such  attentions  from  a  stranger ;  but  seri 
ous  emotions  give   to   these  little  punctilios    their 
due  insignificance  and  she  received  his  kindness  as 
quietly  as  if  it  were  warranted  by  old  acquaintance. 
Seton's  unnatural  strength  was  the  only  indication 
of  the  continuance  of  his  fever.     He  was  tranquil 
and  it  appeared  probable  from  the  exertions  he  had 
made  for  self-preservation  that  his  first  immersion  in 
the   water   had   stimulated   his   reason.     Gertrude 
watched  him  anxiously  till  he  disappeared  from  her 
in  ascending  the  steps,   and  then  she  gave   utter 
ance  to  her  devout  gratitude  for  his  preservation 


CLARENCE;    OR 

from  death,  by  an  interposition  that  appeared  to 
her  to  have  been  miraculously  provided.  Accus 
tomed  to  think  and  decide  independently,  she  de 
termined  to  keep  poor  Seton's  sad  affair,  so  far  as 
depended  on  herself,  a  profound  secret.  *  Even  my 
falher,  kind  and  indulgent  as  be  is,'  she  thought, 
1  would  not  deem  it  quite  prudent  to  retain  Louis 
after  this  ;  but  have  I  not  solemnly  promised  to  be 
a  sister  to  him  ?  and  when  he  most  needs  a  sister's 
love  and  care,  I  will  not  abandon  him.'  From  Se- 
ton  her  thoughts  naturally  turned  to  the  stranger. 
4  How  very  strange  our  repeated  meetings,'  she 
thought,  *  how  heroic  his  rescue  of  Louis  !  and  yet 
(she  was  constrained  to  confess  it)  a  common  man 
would  have  done  the  same,  but  not  in  the  same 
manner.  There  was  a  careless  grace  about  him, 
as  if  great  actions  were  at  least  familiar  to  his  ima 
gination.'  All  her  reflections  ended  in  the  natural 
query,  « who  can  he  be  ?'  Suddenly  it  occured  to 
her  that  his  cloak  might  be  labelled,  and  instantly 
throwing  it  from  her  shoulders,  she  sought  and 
found,  neatly  wrought  in  large  black  letters,  Gerald 
Roscoe. 

Is  it  fair  farther  to  expound  Gertrude's  thoughts : 
It  must  be  told,  that  stimulated  by  an  entire  new 
set  of  emotions,  she  rose,  threw  the  cloak  from  her, 
adjusted  her  hair,  which  she  was  mortified  to  find 
had  fallen  down,  and  which,  as  dame  nature  had 
given  it  neither  the  canonical  heorine  wave,  or  curl, 
could  not  but  be  ungraceful  in  disorder. 

It  certainly  appeared  to  her  that  destiny  had  ma 
liciously  arranged  the  circumstances  of  her  intro 
duction  to  the  hero  of  her  imagination.  How  often 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  261 

in  those  reveries  in  which  young  ladies  will  indulge 
when  they  weave  the  plot  of  a  little  personal  ro 
mance — how  often  had  she  contrived  the  particu 
lars  of  their  first  meeting — like  a  skilful  painter,  and 
with  pardonable  vanity,  arranged  the  lights  and 
shadows  to  give  the  best  effect  to  the  picture.  And 
now  to  be  first  seen  by  him  rambling  over  perilous 
rocks,  at  the  witching  time  of  night,  and  suspected, 
as  she  knew  she  must  be,  of  an  appointment  with  a 
young  man  of  Seton's  appearance,  and  in  such  a 
fantastical  dress,  and  she  such  a  figure !  She  re 
membered  the  smile  she  had  detected  on  Roscoe's 
lips,  and  the  thought  that  she  had  at  least  appeared' 
ridiculous  to  him,  was  intolerable.  Then  she  re 
collected  the  Utica  scrawl,  and  was  compelled  to 
admit  the  conviction  that  Roscoe  had  written  it. 
This  wounded  her  ;  it  touched  her  feelings  where 
they  were  most  vulnerable ;  and,  indignant  and  re 
sentful,  she  determined  to  hasten  up  the  steps  and 
avoid,  if  possible,  speaking  with  him  again.  The 
cloak  she  left  on  the  rock.  She  could  no  more 
have  touched  it  than  if  it  had  been  Hercules'  fatal 
tunic.  She  forgot  that  a  few  moments  before  she 
could  scarcely  support  her  own  weight,  ascended  the 
several  flights  of  steps  without  halting,  and  had 
reached  the  very  last,  when  she  met  Roscoe  return 
ing.  She  was  embarrassed  and  breathless,  and  with 
out  stopping — without  the  slightest  acknowledgement 
of  his  courtesy,  or  apology  for  the  trouble  she  gave 
him,  "  You  will  find  your  cloak,"  she  said,  "  on 
the  rocks — good  night,  sir."  But  Roscoe  did  not 
appear  to  notice  her  abruptness.  "  I  expected,"  he 
said,  turning  and  offering  his  arm,  which  she  de^ 


262  CLARENCE;  OR 

clined — he  mended  his  phrase,  "  I  hoped  to  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  finding  you  there  too — I  beg 
you  will  not  walk  so  rapidly — you  have  no  occa 
sion  for  anxiety  about  your  friend  ;  he  reached  the 
house  without  difficulty — and  his  own  room," — he 
added,  with  as  Gertrude  thought,  a  very  significant 
emphasis — "  his  own  room  ivithout  observation.  I 
am  quite  sure  of  it,  for  I  remained  in  the  entry  till  I 
heard  his  door  close."  Miss  Clareiice  made  no  re 
ply,  and  they  walked  on  a  few  paces  in  silence. 
Roscoe  then  said,  "  I  am  curious  to  learn  how  the 
accident  happened.  I  asked  your  iriend,  but  he 
evaded  my  inquiry — he  perhaps  felt  that  his  foot 
ought  not  to  have  faltered,  where  yours  trod  safely." 

Gertrude,  in  her  confusion,  and  desire  to  shelter 
Seton,  said,  "  he  was  weak  from  recent  illness." 

"  An  imprudent  exposure  for  an  invalid  !"  re 
turned  Roscoe,  with  another  of  his  provoking  smiles', 
"  but  I  honor  his  self-forgetfulness  in  so  romantic 
a  cause,  and  only  wonder  that  a  prosaic  personage 
like  myself  has  been  allowed  to  appear  in  the  drama, 
though  it  be  only  to  turn  the  wheel  of  fortune  for 
others,  and  be  dismissed  and  forgotten,  when  1  have 
enacted  my  inglorious  part."  They  had  now 
reached  the  door-steps,  and  he  added  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  I  am  compelled  to  return  immediately  to 
the  village,  and  proceed  thence  in  the  stage-coach 
— may  I  presume  to  ask  the  names  of  my  new 
acquaintance  ?" 

"  Oh,  no — do  not  ask  them — do  not,  I  entreat 
you,  inquire  them — do  not  ever  speak  of  what  has 
happened  to  night.  The  life,"  she  continued,  for 
she  had  now  quite  recovered  the  power  of  thought 


A  TALE  OP  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 

and  speech,  "  the  life  you  have  preserved  would  be 
worthless  if  there  were  any  exposure." 

"  Shall  I  make  a  vow  of  secresy  ?"  he  asked, 
bending  his  knee  gracefully  to  the  step,  gallantly 
taking  her  hand,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  raillery 
that  Gertrude  felt  made  her  pathetic  appeal  almost 
ridiculous,  "  1  do  make  it,"  he  added  with  mock 
solemnity,  "  craving  only  an  exception  in  favor  of 
one  friend,  a  safe  confidante — my  mother.  I  call 
on  the  bright  moon  to  witness  my  vow,"  and  in 
token  of  sealing  it,  his  lips  approached  her  hand, 
but  without  presuming  to  touch  it.  "  Now  I  have 
pledged  the  honor  of  a  true  knight — do  I  not  de 
serve  a  dispensation  in  my  favor  ?" 

While  Gertrude  hesitated,  resolved  not  to  give 
her  name,  and  feeling  that  it  was  almost  childish  to 
withhold  it,  a  window-sash  above  their  heads  was 
gently  raised,  and  murmuring  a  heart-felt  '  God 
bless  you,'  she  escaped  into  the  entry.  There  she 
lingered  long  enough  to  ascertain  that  Mrs.  Lay- 
ton  was  speaking  to  Roscoe  ;  and  then,  after  lis 
tening  at  Seton's  door,  and  finding  all  quiet  there, 
she  retired  to  her  room  to  revolve  over  and  over 
again,  and  to  place  in  various  lights  and  shadows, 
the  events  of  the  evening. 

She  had  seen  Roscoe  at  last !  and  in  spite  of  her 
personal  mortification  and  vexation,  she  liked  him — 
she  could  not  help  it — she  rejoiced  in  her  inmost 
soul,  that  she  was  still  unknown  to  him  as  the  dread 
ed  rich  miss  Clarence,  and  she  finally  fell  asleep 
with  the  secret,  sweet  consciousness,  that  she  had 
not  impressed  him  as  altogether  the  counter  part  of 
*  Miss  Eunice  Peabody  /' 


"-JC4  CLARENCE;   OK 


CHAPTER  XV. 


!i  Surtout  lorsqu'ona  1'air  de  plaisanter  avec  le  sort,  et  de  comp- 
ter  sur  le  bonheur,  il  se  passe  quelque  chose  de  redoubtable  dans  le 
tissu  de  notre  histoire,  et  les  fatales  sceurs  viennent  y  meler  leur  fib 
noir,  et  brouiller  1'ceuvre  de  nos  mains."  COBINNE. 


Miss  CLARENCE  was  up  at  gray  dawn,  awaiting 
intelligence  fromSeton.  She  had  directed  his  nurse, 
to  inform  her  how  he  passed  the  night ;  and, 'though 
conscious  she  was  better  informed  than  auy  one  else, 
she  was  anxious  to  learn  the  effect  of  his  wild  sally. 
John  soon  appeared.  "  Mr.  Seton,"  he  said,  "  lay  in 
a  dead  sleep,  but  was  nothing  worse.  I  have  not 
closed  my  eyes"  continued  John,  "  the  w?hole  blessed 
night,  but  one  bare  minute,  and  then  while  I  dosed, 
as  it  were,  Mr.  Louis  took  the  advantage  to  slip 
down  stairs,  and  pump  some  water  on  his  head,  that 
was  fiery  hot,  and  the  poor  young  gentleman  came 
back,  as  wet  as  a  drowned  kitten  ;  I  was  scared  half 
out  of  my  wits  ;  but  I  put  on  him  dry  clothes,  and 
got  him  quite  comfortable,  and  1  hope  Miss  Ger 
trude,  nor  Mr.  Clarence,  won't  take  it  amiss  that 
I  was  overcome  with  that  wink  of  sleep." 

But  Miss  Gertrude,  though  the  gentlest  of  kind 
mistresses,  did  take  it  very  much  amiss  ;  and  re 
proved  John,  with  the  utmost  severity,  that  the  of 
fence,  according  to  his  statement  of  it,  (which  she 
was  compelled  to  receive,)  admitted.  Those  are  to 
be  deeply  compassionated,  who  are  obliged  to  trust 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     265 

to  menials  and  strangers,  for  offices,  in  which  affec 
tion  alone  can  overcome  the  weariness  of  mind  and 
body !  Gertrude  felt  too  late  that  she  had  rashly  under 
taken  a  task  she  could  not  execute.  '  Oh,  were  I  his 
sisterindeed  !'  she  thought  *  I  would  never  leave 
him  !'  She  blamed  herself  for  urging  his  coming  to 
Trenton,  and  wished  nothing  more  than  to  get  back 
to  Clarenceville,  where  secluded  from  observation, 
she  might  share  the  personal  care  of  him  with  her 
women ;  but  the  physician,  at  his  morning  visit,  de 
clared  a  return  impossible — he  would  not  even 
sanction  a  removal  to  a  private  house,  but  ordered 
the  patient's  room  to  be  made  perfectly  dark,  and 
prescribed  the  usual  remedies  for  a  brain  fever. 

Miss  Clarence  was  not  exempt  from  the  reserve,, 
fastidiousness  it  may  be,  so  sedulously  cherished  in 
the  education  of  our  country-women.  But  every 
thing  was  well  proportioned,  and  well  balanced  in 
her  mind ;  she  never  sacrificed  the  greater  to  the 
less.  The  moment  she  ascertained  that  Seton's 
reason  was  so  far  alienated,  that  he  would  probably 
be  quite  unconscious  of  her  presence — and  that  it 
could  certainly  be  of  no  disservice  to  him,  she  went  to 
his  room,  sat  at  his  bed-side,  and  watched  him,  as  if  he 
were  in  truth  her  brother.  He  was  alternately  tor* 
pid  and  silent,  or  violent  and  raving.  The  only  in 
dication  that  a  spark  of  reason  remained,  was  in  the 
passiveness  with  which  he  received  from  Gertrude, 
what  he  rejected  from  every  other  hand. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  slight  remission 
of  his  fever,  and  Gertrude  went  to  her  own  apart 
ment,  where  Emilie  Layton,  who  had  sent  her  re 
peated  messages  during  the  day,  was  awaiting  her. 

VOL.  I.  <    23 


266  CLARENCE;  OR 

The  affectionate  girl  threw  herself  into  Gertrude's 
arms — expressed  her  delight  at  meeting  her  in  the  un 
qualified  terms  of  youthful  ecstasy,  and  her  extreme 
pity  for  'poor  Mr.  Seton.'  After  informing  her 
that  her  mother  was  longing  to  see  her,  but  that  she 
had  been  in  bed  all  day,  with  a  violent  head-ache, 
she  was  silent,  evidently  embarrassed,  and  perplex 
ed.  She  unclasped  and  clasped  her  bracelet  twenty 
times,  twisted  every  feather  of  her  fan  awry,  and 
at  last,  throwing  her  handkerchief  over  her  face, 
she  said,  "  dear  Gertrude,  I  am  engaged  to  be  mar 
ried  to  Mr.  Pedrillo." 

"Emilie!"  exclaimed  Gertrude. 

Nothing  could  be  more  simple  and  bare,  thaji 
the  exclamation  ;  but  it  was  a  key-note  to  Emilie' s 
ear.  "  I  knew  you  would  think  so,  Gertrude,"  she 
said,  as  if  replying  to  a  long  remonstrance — "  I  told 
mama  you  would — but  it  is  not  so  very — very 
bad ;"  and  she  laid  her  head  on  Gertrude's  shoul 
der,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

"  But  my  dear,  sweet  Erailie,  if  it  be  bad  at  all  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  say  it  is  bad  at 
all — at  least,  it  would  not  be,  if " 

"  If  what  ?  speak  out,  Emilie/' 

"  Oh !  I  had  rather  speak  out  to  you,  than  not  ;  I 
am  sure  my  heart  will  feel  the  lighter  for  it.  You  are 
so  reasonable,  and  so  judicious,  and  all  that,  Gertrude, 
that  I  suppose  you  have  not  felt  so  ;  but  I  expected 
to  be  in  love  when  I  married.  Ever  since  I  first 
thought  of  it  at  all,  though  I  can't  remember  when 
that  was,  I  have  expected  to  love,  and  adore  my 
husband — I  have  always  said,  I  would  never  marry 
any  man,  that  I  was  not  willing  to  die  for." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  26? 

"And  *  judicious  and  reasonable'  as  you  think 
me,  neither  would  I,  Emilie." 

"  Would  not  you,  Gertrude  ?  would  not  you  ? — 
then,  it  is  right — I  am  sure  it  is  right;"  and  her 
beautiful  face  brightened  all  over  ;  but,  instantly,  a 
shadow  crossed  it — as  much  of  a  shadow,  as  can 
appear  on  a  freshly  blown  rose,  and  sighing  heavily, 
she  added,  "  bnt  it  is  no  use  now — it  is  all  settled." 
"  Irrevocably  ?" 

"  Irrevocably  ;  mother  says,  to  recede  would  be 
ruinous  to  us  all ;  she  has  not  explained  to  me  how, 
because  she  cannot  bear  to  make  me  as  miserable 
as  she  is.  If  I  can  make  them  all  happy,!  ought— 
ought  I  not,  Gortrude  f" 

"  If  yon  can,  without  too  great  a  sacrifice,  Emi 
lie." 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  great  sacrifice ;  I  do  not,  and 
never  can  love  Mr.  Pedrillo,  and  you  know,  I  must 
never  love  any  body  else  ;  so  it  is  a  total  sacrifice  of 
my  affections  ;  but  that  is  all.    I  like  Mr.  Pedrillo — 
at  least,  I  should,  if  he  did  not  want  me  to  love  him. 
Mother  says,  she  is  certain,  that  after  I  have  been 
married  a  year,  I  shall  like  him  better  than  nine  wo 
men  out  of  ten  like  their  husbands.     He  is  very  kind, 
and  generous  to  me ;  he  gave  me  these  splendid  brace 
lets  ;  but  Gertrude,  when   I  put  them  on  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  the  natives  of  Cuba,  you  know, 
who  thought,  poor  simpletons,  that  the  Spaniards 
were  only  decorating  them  with  beautiful  ornaments, 
when  they  were  fastening  manacles  on  their  wrists. 
I  always  hated  Spaniards — I  am  sorry  Mr.  Pedrillo 
is  a  Spaniard — I  cannot  forget  it,  though  he  does  not 
look   at  all  Spanish,.    Mama  says,  he  is  probably 


268  CLARENCE;  OR 

descended  from  one  of  the  Irish  Catholic  families 
that  emigrated  to  Spain.  He  is  called  very  hand 
some,  Gertrude,"  she  continued  in  as  plaintive  a 
voice  as  if  she  were  counting  her  griefs ;  "he  is 
very  gay  when  he  is  pleased  ;  he  has  seen  a  great 
deal  of  the  world  though  he  is  not  very  old — not 
more  than  forty." 

"  Forty  !  Emilie  ;  and  you  seventeen  I" 

"  So  it  seemed  to  me,  Gertrude.  I  told  mama 
forty  seemed  to  me  as  old  as  the  hills,  but  she  quite 
laughed  at  me  and  quoted  something  from  Mo- 
liere,  about  his  being  the  better  fitted  to  guide  my 
youth." 

*'  I  presume  he  is  a  man  of  fortune,  Emilie  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed  ;  that  is  the  worst  of  it ;  if  it 
were  not  for  that,  I  could  do  as  1  please." 

Gertrude's  heart  was  full  of  sympathy,  tender 
ness,  and  compassion  for  the  unresisting  victim,  but 
she  hesitated  to  express  her  feelings.  £  Why  should 
she.  increase  the  reluctance  that  must  be  unavailing  f 
Were  it  not  better  to  employ  her  influence  over 
Emilie  to  reconcile  her  to  the  now  inevitable  event.' 
She  tried  to  look  at  the  affair  in  the  most  favorable 
point  of  view,  and  as  there  are  few  substances  so 
black  that  they  will  not  reflect  some  light,  so  there 
are  few  circumstances  in  life  but  that  have,  as  the  pro- 
sers  say,  *  their  advantages  as  well  as  disadvantages.' 
"  I  should  certainly  have  carved  out  for  you  a  dif 
ferent  fate,  dear  Emilie,"  she  said — "  to  love,  as 
well  as  to  be  beloved,  is  always  our  young  dream." 

"  Yes,  indeed !  and  is  it  not  hard  to  awake  so 
very  soon  from  it?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  might  prove  an  illusion,  and  you 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     269 

awake  to  some  blessed  realities.  You  might  cease 
to  love,  but  you  can  never  lose  the  happiness  that 
springs  from  a  difficult  sacrifice  to  filial  sentiment." 

"  That  is  true,  Gertrude,  and  I  will  make  the 
most  of  it.  Mama  would  have  been  so  wretched — 
she  has  so  much  feeling." 

Gertrude  recollected  the  Utica  scrawl,  and  the 
impassioned  intereiew  that  she  had  witnessed  between 
Mrs.  Layton  and  Roscoe,  and  some  painful  dis 
trusts  of  that  lady  crossed  her  mind.  The  feeling 
that  required  all  the  sacrifice  to  come  from  others, 
appeared  to  her  very  questionable.  "  Do  not  look 
so  troubled  about  me,  dear  Gertrude,"  continued 
Emilie,  rightly  interpreting  Gertrude's  expression. 
•'*  I  never  take  any  thing  very  hard.  Aunt  Mary 
used  to  say  I  was  born  under  a  mid-day  sun — there 
were  no  shadows  in  my  path.  If  she  had  but 
lived  ! — but  there  is  no  use  in  wishing."  Emilie 
was  interrupted  by  a  summons  to  Gertrude  from  Se- 
ton's  physician. 

"  Stop  one  moment,"  said  Emilie  ;  "  I  have  not 
yet  told  you  that  Mr.  Pedrillo  is  to  be  here  in  a  few 
days,  and  that  mama  hopes  to  be  able  to  see  you 
to-morrow ;  but  she  begs  you  will  not  speak  of 
this  affair  to  her ;  (  her  nerves,'  she  says,  *  are  so 
torn  to  pieces,'  and — oh  !  I  forgt.t  to  mention  that 
I  want  you  to  come  down  stairs  to-morrow,  there  is 
a  Miss  Marion  here  who  wishes  excessively  to  see 
you  ;  and  her  brother — and  indeed,  Gertrude,  you 
should  come  down,  for  in  spite  of  all  I  say,  every 
bod}7  believes  that  you  must  be  engaged  to  Mr.  Se- 
ton."  Gertrude  was  solicitous  to  avoid  such  an  in 
terpretation  of  her  devotion  to  Seton,  and  she  pro- 
23* 


270  CLARENCE;  OR 

mised  Emilie  she  would  make  her  appearance  on 
the  following  day.  But  the  following  day  found 
her  occupied,  weary,  and  heart-sick,  and  she  declined 
joining  the  society  below  stairs. 

Day  after  day  passed,  and  there  was  no  abatement 
of  Seton's  malady.  The  scene  was  sad  and  monoto 
nous  to  Gertrude,  but  there  were  various  incidents 
occurring  that  were  destined  to  affect  the  fortunes  of 
those  in  whom  she  was  interested. 

Nothing  is  more  characteristic  of  our  country 
than  the  business-like  way  in  which  pleasure  is  pur 
sued.  The  very  few  genuine  idlers  have  not  yet 
learned  grace  or  ease  in  their  '  idlesse.'  A  genuine 
idler — a  man  of  entire  leisure,  is  a  ram  avis.  The 
Duke  of  Saxe-Weirnar  was  asked  by  an  honest  Yan 
kee,  <  what  business  he  followed  for  a  living  ?'  The 
host  of  travellers  who  run  away  from  their  offices, 
counters,  and  farms,  for  a  few  hot  weeks  in  mid-sum 
mer,  hurry  from  post  to  post,  as  if  they  were  in  truth 

*  following  the  business  of  travelling  for  a  living.7 
Trenton  is  one  of  the  picturesque  stations  that  must 
be  visited,  but  being  situated  between  Niagara  and 
Saratoga,  the  chief  points  of  attraction,  Trenton  is 
the  game  shot  on  the  wing.     Most  travellers  leave 
Utica  in  the  morning  coach — arrive  at  Trenton  at 
mid-day — hurry  to  *  the  steps,'  and  the  brink  of  the 

*  great  fall' — eat  their  dinner,  and  proceed  on  their 
route,  in  the  full  complacency  of  having  seen  Tren 
ton  !     Two  or  three  parties  remaining  there  for  se 
veral  days,  was  a  rare  phenomenon.     The  Marions 
alluded  to  by  Emilie,  were  Virginians.    The  mother, 
son,  and  daughter,  comprised  all  that  remained  of  their 
family — a  family  that,  from  its  earliest  existence,  had 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  271 

been  among  the  most  distinguished  of  the  4  ancient 
dominion.'  The  blood  of  English  nobles  ran  in  their 
veins,  and  was  not,  in  their  estimation,  less  honorable 
for  having,  in  its  transmission  to  them,  warmed  the 
hearts  of  pure  republican  patriots.  They  were  the 
very  reverse  of  the  character  which  (we  are  ashamed  to 
confess)  is  often  ascribed  by  northern  prejudice  and 
bigotry  to  our  southern  brethren.  Active  in  body 
and  mind,  spirited,  gifted,  cultivated,  kind-hearted,' 
and  indulgent  to  all  human  kind — even  to  their 
slaves — to  such  a  degree,  that  never  was  a  family 
better  loved  or  better  served  by  its  dependents  ;  and 
so  far  from  possessing  riches,  (which  some  among 
us  fancy  lose  their  wings  when  they  perch  on  a 
southern  plantation,)  they  had  an  hereditary  careless-1 
ness  of  pecuniary  matters,  which,  combining  with  the 
general  deterioration  of  southern  property,  menaced 
them  with  alarming  embarrassments. 

Augusta  Marion  had  endured  severe  afflictions, 
but  she  did  not  increase  their  force  by  resistance. 
She  had  not  the  usual  sweetness  and  gentleness  of 
deportment  that  characterizes  the  manners  of  the  la 
dies  of  the  south.  On  the  contrary,  she  had  a  start 
ling  abruptness  ;  but  as  it  was  the  natural  expression 
of  an  impulsive  character,  of  a  quick  succession  and 
rapid  combination  of  ideas,  and  as  she  had  a  tender 
heart  and  good  temper,  (in  spite  of  now  and  then  a 
momentary  heat  and  flash,)  her  manner  became  ra 
ther  agreeable,  as  suited  to  the  individual,  and  char 
acteristic  of  her.  She  was  sagacious,  and  her  ene 
mies  said  sarcastic  ;  but  if  so,  her  arrows  were  never 
poisoned,  and  never  aimed  at  a  reptile  that  was  not 
noxious. 


CLARENCE;  OR 

Randolph  Marion,  the  brother,  was  the  hope, 
pride,  and  delight  of  mother  and  sister — a  man 
that  everybody  might  love  and  admire,  and  own 
they  did  so  without  being  asked  for  a  reason,  for  the 
reason  was  apparent.  He  had  nothing  in  excess, 
but  all  gentlemanly  points  and  qualities  in  full  mea 
sure.  He  was  not  a  genius,  but  talented — not 
learned,  but  well  informed — not  '  too  handsome  for 
any  thing,'  but  well-looking  enough  for  any  body. 
He  was  not  a  wit,  nor  the  mirror  of  fashion,  nor 
pink  of  courtesy  ;  but  good-humored  and  well-bred. 
In  short,  he  had  just  that  standard  of  character 
that  attracts  the  regard  of  others,  without  alarming 
their  self-love. 

The  Marions,  or  rather  we  should  say  Augusta 
Marion,  was  Emilie's  constant  theme  during  her 
interviews  with  Gertrude.  '  She  was  certainly,'  she 
said,  '  except  her  dear  Gertrude,  the  most  charming 
woman  in  the  world,  so  agreeable  and  so  witty  !; 
Once  or  twice  the  name  of  Randolph  Marion  esca 
ped  her,  but  without  note  or  comment.  '  She  had 
known  them  both  two  years  before  in  Philadelphia, 
and  she  had  always  thought  Miss  Marion  most  en 
tirely  captivating,  and  so  did  her  aunt  Mary.' 

Gertrude  was  delighted  to  see  that  Emilie  could 
crop  the  flowers  in  her  path.  Neither  of  them 
perceived  they  grew  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 
Emilie  seldom  adverted  to  her  engagement.  Like 
death,  it  was  future  and  inevitable,  but  its  period 
was  not  fixed,  to  her  knowledge,  and  she  felt  in  re 
gard  to  it,  all  the  relief  of  uncertainty.  Little  did  she- 
suspect  that  her  mother  had  promised  that  the  mar- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  273 

riage  should  take  place  as  soon  after  Pedrillo's  ap 
pearance  at  Trenton  as  he  should  request. 

Mrs.  Layton  was  still  secluded  in  her  own  apart 
ment,  and  beguiled  Gertrude  and  Emilie — and 
herself  too — with  exaggerated  expressions  of  sensi 
bility  and  suffering !  *  She  could  not  see  Gertrude,' 
so  said  the  little  twisted  pencil-scrawled  notes  which 
she  sent  her  twice  and  thrice  a  day,  '  an  indifferent 
person  she  could  meet  without  emotion;  but  her 
nerves  and  affections  were  so  interwoven  that  one 
could  not  be  touched  without  the  other  vibrating.  She 
was  sustained  by  the  consciousness  of  performing  a 
necessary  duty,  but  she  had  nothing  of  the  martyr 
in  her  composition,  and  she  shrunk  from  the  fagot 
and  the  pile.  She  thanked  heaven,  poor  Em'  had 
not  the  sad  inheritance  of  her  sensibility.  In  a  few 
days  she  hoped  to  see  Gertrude — but  now  her 
nerves  required  solitude  and  a  dark  room.' 

Of  all  the  mysteries  and  obliquities  of  the  human 
mind,  the  arts  of  self-delusion  are  the  most  curious. 
No  doubt  Mrs.  Layton's  imagination  figured  the 
fagot  and  the  pile,  but  was  it  the  martyr  or  the  cul 
prit  that  suffered  f 

"  Dear  Gertrude,"  said  Emilie,  bursting  into 
her  apartment,  and  looking  as  bright  and  fresh  as 
a  sunny  morning  in  June,  "  we  are  all  going  to  the 
falls  this  afternoon — do  promise  you  will  go  with 
us."  Mr.  Clarence,  who  chanced  to  enter  the  room 
at  the  same  moment,  enforced  Emilie's  entreaties, 
and  Gertrude  promised  to  join  her  in  the  parlor  in 
the  course  of  half  an  hour.  Accordingly  she  went 
to  the  parlor  at  the  appointed  time ;  but  finding  no 


274  CLARENCE  ;    OR 

one  there,  she  passed  into  a  small  adjoining  apart 
ment,  and  while  she  was  awaiting  Emilie  she  exa 
mined  a  collection  of  minerals  belonging  to  mine- 
host  of  the  <  rural  resort,'  a  versatile  genius,  who  is 
well  known  to  have  diversified  the  labors  of  his  call 
ing  with  occasional  lectures  on  the  popular  sciences. 
Directly,  two  other  persons  entered  the  parlor,  but 
as  their  voices  were  unknown  to  her,  she  remained 
where  she  was,  secluded  from  observation. 

After  some  common-place  remarks  about  the 
weather,  the  lady  said  abruptly,  "  Have  you  made 
up  your  mind,  Randolph  ?" 

"  About  what,  Augusta?" 

"  Pshaw !  don't  blush  so — upon  my  honor,  I  did 
not  allude  to  Emilie  Layton." 

"  I  did  not  imagine  you  did,  Augusta." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all ;  and  you  were  not  thinking  of 
her — were  you  ?" 

"  And  if  I  were?" 

"  If,  indeed !  No,  no,  Randolph,  you  must  not 
enact  the  lover  there — a  beautiful  gem  she  is — but 
not  for  your  cabinet.  Did  you  ever  see  such  rich 
hazle  eyes,  and  dark  eye-lashes,  with  such  fair  hair, 
and  exquisite  skin  ? — did  you  ever,  Randolph  ?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me,  Augusta? — you  know  1 
never  did." 

"  And  such  dimples  and  lips — and  her  fairy 
Fanella  figure — and  her  exquisite  little  feet.  I  do 
not  believe  Pauline  Borghese's  were  as  pretty, 
though  it  was  her  custom  to  denude  them  to  the  ad 
miring  eyes  of  her  visiters — do  you,  Randolph: 
Well  may  you  look  grave,  It  was  a  cross  acci- 
« lent  that  cast  her  in  your  way  just  now,  when  such 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     275 

an  opportunity  of  falling  eligibly  in  love  is  at  hand 
— when,  for  once,  love  and  reason  might  meet 
together  in  good  fellowship." 

"  As  they  never  did  meet,  Augusta." 

"  Ah,  that  is  the  cant  of  one  and  twenty.  But 
matters  are  differently  arranged  with  such  veterans 
as  mama  and  I.  You  should  hear  some  of  our 
colloquies.  Dear  mama  !  nothing  is  more  amusing 
than  the  struggles  of  her  natural  tastes  against  the 
vulgar  necessities  of  this  *  bank-note  world.'  In 
your  selection  of  a  wife — and  mama  has  no  doubt 
you  can  select  from  the  whole  sex — she  would  not 
allow  the  lady's  fortune  to  be  even  a  make-weight 
in  the  scale  of  your  favor  ;  but  the  trifling  acces 
sory — the  little  accident  of  fortune  '  removes  the 
only  objection  to  Randolph's  marriage,'  so  says 
mama.  '  Removes  the  objection  !'  was  ever  a  pe 
cuniary  motive  more  ingeniously  staled,  and  in  sin 
gleness  of  heart  too.  And  truly,  Randolph,  if  thi? 
Miss  Clarence  is  the  paragon  of  excellence  that 
Emilie  represents  her,  the  one  objection  is  removed." 

"  But,  Augusta,  what  if  there  be  in  my  heart  a 
thousand  and  one  objections  ?" 

"  To  Miss  Clarence  ?" 

"  Pshaw  !  no.  What  am  I  to  Hecuba,  or  what 
is  Hecuba  to  me  ?" 

"  I  understand  you — the  objections  are  to  mar 
rying  any  woman,  save  one  ?" 

Marion  shut  the  outer  door,  and  then  replied. 
"Yes,  Augusta,  save  one.  From  you,  my  dear 
sister,  I  have  no  concealments." 

Miss  Marion  made  no  reply  for  some  moments — 
when  she  did,  her  voice  was  changed  from  raillery  to 


276  CLARENCE;    OR 

tender  seriousness,  "  I  am  sorry,  Randolph — heartily 
sorry — but  cannot  blame  you.  All  the  loves  and  graces 
have  combined  in  that  pretty  creature  against  your 
prudence ;  and  then  her  beauty  is  so  true  an  index  of 
her  sweet,  innocent  spirit.  Well,  it  can't  be  helped, 
and  so  there's  an  end  of  it.  No,  I  do  not  blame  you. 
On  the  very  verge  of  the  frigid  zone  of  old  maidism 
as  I  am,  there  is  nothing  I  so  truly  sympathize 
with  as  a  youthful,  reckless,  true  love — a  love  that 
hopes,  expects,  and  believes  all  things — and  fears 
nothing.  Randolph,  from  the  time  we  knew  Emilie 
in  Philadelphia,  and  you  used  to  carry  her  music-* 
book  to  school  for  her,  I  have  had  a  presentiment 
of  this,  and  when  we  met  here,  I  was  sure  you, 
had  turned  the  critical  page  in  the  book  of  fate." 

"  And  you  permitted  me  to  read  it  without  advicjfc 
or  warning.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Augusta." 

Nothing  makes  a  young  heart  overflow  with  gra^ 
titude  like  meeting  (especially  if  unexpected)  with 
hearty  sympathy  in  a  love  affair.  Randolph  Ma 
rion  was  a  pattern  of  fraternal  affection,  but  never 
had  he  felt  more  tenderly  towards  his  sister  than  at 
this  moment ;  and  when  she  proceeded  to  give  him 
more  unequivocal  proofs  of  her  sympathy,  his  feel 
ings  were  raised  to  a  higher  pitch  than  tenderness. 

"  Randolph,"  she  said,  "  I  am  frank  and  direct, 
and  must  to  the  point.  I  like  to  remove  all  move>- 
able  obstacles.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  pathetic  ;  but 
you  know  *  there  are  but  two  of  us,'  and  between 
us  two  but  one  heart.  I  have  some  fortune,  thanks 
to  aunt  Molly — there  are  sad  rents  in  our  patrimo 
nial  estate — take  what  I  have  and  repair  them,  and 
in  return,  my  dear  brother,  give  me  in  fee  simple  a 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     277 

rocking-chair  at  your  fire-side,  and  that,  with  a  life 
estate  in  your  heart,  is  all  I  ask." 

Marion  threw  his  arms  around  his  sister's  neck, 
and  expressed  in  a  few  broken  sentences  his  admi 
ration  of  her  generosity,  and  his  determination  not 
to  accept  it. 

"It  is  no  sudden  impulse  of  generosity,  Ran 
dolph,  but  that  which  I  have  long  expected  and  de 
termined  to  do.  Since  the  event  that  fatally  and  for 
ever  extinguished  my  hopes,  nothing  remains  for 
me  but  to  make  others  happy  ;  and  that,  I  suspect, 
after  all,  is  the  surest  way  of  making  myself  so." 
At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Emilie  ap 
peared.  She  perceived  the  brother  arid  sister  were 
deeply  engaged,  and  was  retreating,  but  they  both 
begged  her  to  come  in,  and  she  then  asked  t  if  Miss 
Clarence  were  not  there  ?' 

"  Heaven  forefend  !"  exclaimed  Miss  Marion, 
resuming  her  natural  tone  of  gaiety. 

"  She  must  have  come  in  here,"  continued  Emi 
lie,  "  her  father  told  me  she  was  here,  and  the  ser 
vant  says  he  saw  her  come  in  here." 

Poor  Gertrude  had  been  on  the  rack  for  the  last 
ten  minutes.  There  had  been  no  point  in  the  con 
versation  from  its  start,  when  she  could,  without  ex 
treme  embarrassment,  make  her  appearance.  As  it 
had  proceeded,  she  had  become  as  anxious  to  avoid 
observation,  as  ever  a  hidden  criminal  was  to  escape 
detection.  She  would  have  jumped  out  of  the  win 
dow  if  there  had  been  an  open  window  ;  but  there 
was  none — no  possible  escape — and  she  had  stood, 
like  a  statue,  hoping  that  some  kind  chance  would 

VOL.  I.  24 


278  CLARENCE;    OR 

call  the  parties  away  before  she  was  compelled  to 
make  her  egress.  Emilie  approached  the  door  of 
the  inner  room,  and  nothing  could  in  any  degree 
relieve  her  but  an  adroit  movement.  She  advanced 
from  her  seclusion. 

"  Gertrude,"  exclaimed  Emilie,  "  you  are  here 
after  all  !" 

The  Marions  looked  thunderstruck.  There  was 
tinge  enough  on  Gertrude's  cheek  to  manifest  her 
full  consciousness  of  the  awkward  position  in  which 
she  stood.  Emilie  began  the  usual  form  of  an  in 
troduction. 

Gertrude  interrupted  her,  then  recovering  her 
self-possession,  she  said,  "  An  introduction  is  super 
fluous,  Emilie,  you  would  hand  me  across  the 
vestibule — I  am  already  in  the  inner  temple — and 
your  friends  must  believe,"  she  continued,  turning 
to  them,  her  fine  countenance  animated  with  the 
feelings  they  had  inspired,  "  your  friends  must  be 
lieve  that  I  feel  its  beauty  too  much,  ever  to  violate 
its  sanctity." 

Miss  Marion  obeyed  the  impulse  of  her  warm 
heart  and  took  Gertrude's  hand.  "  We  are  friends 
for  ever,"  she  said,  "  and  Randolph  is  in  love,  lite 
rally  at  first  sight."  He  certainly  looked  all  admi 
ration.  "  Do  not,  my  dear  Emilie,"  she  continued, 
"  stare  as  if  we  had  all  of  a  sudden  fallen  to  talking 
Greek — don't  ask,  even  with  your  eyes,  for  an  ex 
planation.  Here  is  Mr.  Clarence  looking  as  if  it 
were  time  for  us  to  proceed  on  our  walk."  They 
did  so — and  when  they  came  to  the  steps,  Mr. 
Clarence  turned  off,  saying  that  he  had  arrived  at 
an  age  when  a  man  must  be  excused  for  preferring 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  279 

to  look  down  upon  a  water-fall  to  the  inconvenience 
of  descending  to  look  up.  The  ladies  accepted  his 
excuse  and  promised  to  join  him  at  the  shantee  on 
the  brink  of  the  great  fall.  Emilie  took  Marion's 
offered  arm,  without  dreaming  of  the  projects  that 
were  agitating  his  bosom,  or  the  hopes  that  were 
hovering  on  his  lips  for  expression.  She  was  at 
the  happy  age  when  the  feelings  are  enjoyed,  with 
out  being  analyzed.  She  lived  in  the  present  bright 
hour,  careless  of  the  future,  for  whatever  was  future 
seemed  to  her,  as  to  a  child,  distant.  When  they 
reached  the  flat  rocks  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps, 
Gertrude  was  affected  by  the  recollection  of  the 
scene  she  had  witmessed  when  last  there.  Miss 
Marion  observed  her  unnatural  paleness,  and  im 
puting  it  to  the  debility  consequent  on  her  fatigue 
and  anxiety,  she  insisted  on  sitting  down  with  her, 
and  permitting  Randolph  and  Emilie  to  precede 
them.  Randolph  was  nothing  loath  to  this  arrange 
ment,  and  he  soon  disappeared  with  his  fair  com 
panion.  The  circumstances  of  Gertrude's  intro 
duction  to  Miss  Marion,  enabled  them  to  dispense 
with  the  usual  preliminaries  to  acquaintance. 
They  understood  one  another,  and  feeling  that  they 
did  so,  they  interchanged  thoughts  on  various. sub 
jects  with  the  familiarity  of  friends.  Miss  Marion 
did  not  speak  of  Emilie,  and  Gertrude  dared  not  in 
timate  that  her  destiny  was  already  fixed.  They 
talked  of  Mrs.  Layton,  about  whom  Miss  Marion 
was  quite  curious.  She  had  never  seen  her,  and 
had  no  very  favorable  impression  of  her.  "  I  would 
fain  believe,  Miss  Clarence,"  she  said,  "  that  she 
deserves  the  admiration  you  express  of  her,  but  I 


CLARENCE;    OR 

am  certain  I  should  not  like  her.     The  happy  agc 
of  delusion—the  luxury  of  believing  all  things  are 
what  they  seem,  is  past  to  me.     Experience  has  been 
to  me  like  the  magical  unguent  with  which  poor 
Lelia   anointed   her  eyes,  that  enabled  her  mortal 
vision  to  penetrate  through  all  disguises  into  the 
sins  and  miseries  of  fairy  land.     Mrs.  Layton  is  a 
woman  of  fashion — a  belle  at  forty  !     No,  I  am 
sure  I  shall  not  like  her.     Thank  Heaven,  Emilie 
has  not  been  long  enough  in  her  atmosphere— a 
malaria  it  is— to  be  infected  by  her."     Gertrude 
interrupted  Miss   Marion  to  ask   if  she  knew  the 
gentleman  who  had  just  descended  the  steps,  and 
who  after  a  keen  glance  at  them,  eagerly  surveyed 
the  only  traversable  path.     "  I  think  I  have  seen 
him  before,"  she  said,   after  a  moment's  conside 
ration.     "  Oh,  yes,  that  dog  1  recollect  perfectly." 
She    pointed     to    a    beautiful    liver-colored    little 
spaniel,  with  white  tips  to  his  feet  and  ears,  and 
his  sides  fleckered    with  spots  so   white   and  dis 
tinct,    that   they   appeared    like    wreaths    of  snow 
just   lightly  thrown  there.     « I   remember   now,  it 
was  on    board   the   steam-boat   I   met    them — the 
dog  is   a  perfect  beauty."     The   dog,  as  if  con 
scious    of  the    admiring   gaze    of  the  ladies,  and 
like    a    flattered    belle,     anxious  to    show   off  his 
commended  graces,   plunged  into  the  water.     The 
current  was  stronger  than  he  anticipated,  and  he 
seemed  in   imminent,  danger  of  being  swept  away  ; 
but  he  courageously  buffetted  the  waves,  whimper 
ing  and  keeping  his  eye  fixed  on  his  master,  who 
sprang  to  the  brink  of  the  water,  crying,  "  Bravo  ! 
bravo  !  Triton,  my  good  fellow !  bravo  !• — courage 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  28] 

mon  petit !"  He  looked  as  if  he  would  plunge  in  for 
his  favorite,  if  it  were  necessary.  But  it  was  not — 
Triton  came  safe  to  land,  and  while  he  was  shaking 
a  shower  from  his  pretty  sides,  and  receiving  his 
master's  caresses,  Gertrude  anxiously  demanded  of 
Miss  Marion  if  she  knew  the  gentleman's  name. 
11 1  do  not — I  meant  to  have  inquired — it  is  such  a 
burden  off  your  mind  when  you  find  out  a  stranger's 
name — he  is  evidently  a  foreigner." 

"  A  foreigner !"  echoed  Miss  Clarence. 

"  You  start,  as  if  a  foreigner  were  of  course  a 
pirate,  or  a  great  bandit." 

The  only  foreigner  Gertrude  thought  of,  at  that 
moment,  certainly  seemed  to  her  to  belong  to  the  class 
of  spoilers.  Though  Emilie  had  told  her,  Pedrillo 
did  not  look  like  a  Spaniard,  yet  Gertrude's  imagi 
nation  had  pictured  him  with  dark  eyes ;  with  a  face 
of  more  shade  than  light,  and  in  every  shadow  lurk 
ing  some  deep  mystery  or  bad  design.  The  gen 
tleman  had  large  and  very  light  blue  eyes,  and 
a  fair,  clear  complexion,  though  rather  deepening  to 
the  hue  of  the  bon  vivant,  and  Gertrude  thought  at 
first  sight,  (for  we  would  put  in  a  saving  clause  for 
her  sagacity,)  had  rather  an  open,  agreeable  expres 
sion. 

"  What  does  your  practised  eye,"  she  asked  Miss 
Marion,  "  see  of  the  foreigner  in  that  gentleman  ?" 

"  What !  why,  in  the  first  place,  observe  his  air — 
the  tout-ensemble — he  has  nothing  of  the  don't  care, 
negligent  demeanour  of  our  countrymen  who,  from 
living  always  among  their  equals,  from  having  no 
superiors  to  obey,  nor  inferiors  to  command,  get 
this  easy,  indifferent,  and  careless  manner.  Our 
24* 


282  CLARENCE;  OR 

quiet,  plodding,  uneventful,  comfortable  lives,  are 
stamped  on  our  faces.  They  are  as  different  from 
the  Europeans,  as  the  appearance  of  a  tame  animal, 
from  a  wild  one.  After  the  smooth  surface  of 
youth  is  broken  up,  the  face  bears  the  record  of  in 
dividual  experience.  I  was  struck  with  this,  in  look 
ing  at  David's  picture  of  the  coronation.  The  re 
markable  men  there  clustered  around  their  master, 
the  miracle  of  the  age,  looked  as  if  they  had  lived  in 
an  atmosphere  of  pure  oxygen.  I  remember  turn 
ing  my  eyes  from  the  picture  to  the  sober  citizens 
who  were  gazing  at  it,  and  thinking  that  their  faces 
were  as  spiritless  as  shaking  Quakers." 

"  But  these  are  indications  to  the  gifted  eye," 
.-aid  Gertrude. 

"  There  are  others  then,  more  obvious.  Just 
cast  your  eye  on  this  gentleman,  now  his  hat  is  off  : 
you  may,  for  he  does  not  seem  conscious  of  our  ex 
istence — that  profusion  of  hair,  would  be  a  curiosity 
on  an  American  head,  over  five  and  twenty ;  and  this 
gentleman  has  some  dozen  years  more  than  that — and 
observe,  as  he  passes  his  hand  over  his  fajce,those  large, 
richly  set  rings.  I  never  saw  an  American  ( I  mean,  of 
course,  a  man  past  boyishness  and  dandyism)  with 
more  than  one,  and  that,  some  simple  token  or  me 
morial  ;  and  finally,  see  the  string  of  little  silver 
bells  on  his  dog's  collar — an  American  would  not 
venture  an  appendage  so  pretty  and  fantastical. 
But  see,  he  is  coming  towards  us,  and  means  to 
speak — of  course  he  is  not  an  Englishman." 

The  stranger  bowed  courteously,  and  made  some 
common-pjace  remarks  on  the  scenery.  Whether 
his  accent  were  foreign,  or  merely  peculiar  to  the  in- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  283 

dividual,  it  was  difficult  to  determine.  He  compar 
ed  the  falls  to  those  on  the  Caatskill — the  Cohoes, 
the  falls  of  the  Genesee,  Niagara,  la  Chaudiere,  and 
Montmorenci.  This  was  all  American,  and  Ger 
trude  began  to  think  her  companion's  sagacity  was  at 
fault ;  but  in  the  next  breath,  he  spoke  of  the  falls  of 
the  Clyde,  of  Tivoli,  and  Schuff  hausen,  as  if  equally 
familiar  with  them.  He  affected  nothing  of  the 
amateur  of  nature,  but  appeared  the  citizen  of  the 
world,  who,  habitually  adapts  himself  to  the  taste 
of  the  company  in  which  he  happens  to  fall.  The 
ladies  rose  to  pursue  their  walk,  and  he  bowed,  and 
preceded  them  at  so  quick  a  pace  that  he  was  soon 
out  of  sight.  Brief  as  their  interview  had  been, 
Gertrude  was  satisfied  that  Miss  Marion  was  right 
in  her  conjectures,  and  instinctively  as  she  shrunk 
from  it,  she  believed  that  she  ought  to  rejoice  inPe- 
drillo's  arrival.  The  sooner  poor  Marion  was  awa 
kened  from  his  dream,  the  better  ;  and  certainly  too, 
the  sooner  Emilie  was  recalled  from  the  labyrinth, 
into  which  she  was  blindly  plunging.  But  even  her 
deep  interest  in  her  friend  was  driven  from  Ger 
trude's  mind,  at  repassing  the  rocks  on  which  she 
had  suffered  with  Seton  the  agonies  of  deadly  fear 
and  despair — some  gentler  remembrances  beamed 
athwart  her  mind. 

An  abrupt  turn  in  their  walk,  now  again  brought 
the  ladies  in  view  of,  and  near  to  the  stranger.  He 
stood  partly  concealed  by  a  cluster  of  dwarf- 
beeches,  his  face  half  averted  from  them,  but  still 
they  could  see  that  his  brow  was  contracted,  his  lips 
compressed,  and  his  eye  eagerly  fixed  on  some  ob 
ject  ;  and  instantly  Gertrude  perceived  that  object 


284  CLARENCE;    OR 

was  Emilie,  and  she  felt  assured  the  stranger  was  Pe- 
drillo.  Emilie  stood  beyond,  and  far  above  them, 
on  the  flat  surface  of  a  projecting  rock.  Her  Leg 
horn  cottage-hat,  tied  with  pink  ribbons,  had  fallen 
back,  and  Randolph  was  interweaving  her  beautiful 
tresses  with  wild  flowers.  She  appeared  as  lovely, 
and  both  were  as  happy  as  spirits  of  paradise ;  and 
Pedrillo  seemed  to  regard  them  with  that  oblique  and 
evil  eye,  that  Satan  bent  on  our  first  parents  in  their 
blest  abode — that  eye  of  mingled  and  contending 
passions,  that  expresses  the  ruined  soul.  Both  the 
ladies  stopped,  and  stood  motionless. 

All  parties  were  near  the  great  fall.  Mr.  Clar 
ence  was  in  the  porch  of  the  little  shantee  that  over 
looks  the  cascade.  Randolph  and  Emilie  had  as 
cended  some  distance  above  the  basin  of  the  tor 
rent,  by  the  foot-path,  that  winding  around  the  per 
pendicular  rocks,  and  mounting  the  bare  sides  of 
those  that  are  less  precipitous,  affords  a  safe,  and 
not  very  difficult  ascent  to  the  cautious  and  agile 
passenger.  As  we  have  said,  Emilie  and  Marion 
were  standing  on  the  platform  of  a  projecting  rock, 
when  Pedrillo  first  discerned  them — there  they 
stood,  the  world  forgetting.  It  was  one  of  those 
few  blissful  moments  of  life,  that  borrows  nothing 
from  memory,  and  asks  nothing  from  hope.  Such 
moments  are  too  often  a  prelude  to  weary  hours  of 
sorrow ;  they  were  fleeting  to  Emilie,  for  recalled 
to  actual  existence  by  a  strong  and  unequivocal  ex 
pression  of  Randolph's  tenderness,  her  engage 
ment  darted  into  her  mind;  she  started  as  if  a  dag 
ger  had  pierced  her  heart,  and  turned  from  her  lover. 
As  she  did  so,  she  saw  Pedrillo  ;  she  encountered 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  285 

his  glance,  and  she  felt  to  her  inmost  soul  all  it 
conveyed.  She  uttered  a  faint  exclamation  and 
turned  from  the  rock  to  ascend  the  cliff.  She  left 
his  side,  or  rather  sprang  from  him  so  abruptly,  that 
Marion  was  not  aware  of  her  intention  till  she  was 
some  fe<?tin  advance  of  him.  "  Be  careful,Emilie !" 
he  cried,  "Stop!  for  Heaven's  sake,  stop — let  me 
precede  you.  Emilie!  Emilie  !  stop  !"  he  continu 
ed,  as  she,  without  hearing  or  heeding  him,  pressed 
on.  "Just  ahead  of  you,  is  a  most  perilous  place — 
for  God's  sake,  stop!  Emilie!  Emilie!  you  are 
below  the  path  !" 

Still  she  heeded  not,  but  pressed  on  with  that  fear 
lessness  that  sometimes  secures  from  accident.  But 
here  there  was  but  one  security — but  one  safe  path, 
and  from  that  she  had  unconsciously  deviated.  Mr. 
Clarence  saw  from  above  her  imminent  peril,  and 
screamed  to  her  to  stop.  Gertrude  and  Miss  Marion 
perceived,  that  one  more  step,  and  her  fate  was  inevi 
table  ;  and  in  the  same  breath,  they  uttered  a  shriek  of 
terror.  Pedrillo,  too,  in  a  voice  that  resounded  from 
shore  to  shore,  shouted  '  Beware  !'  Randolph,  only, 
was  silent ;  almost  petrified  by  the  immediate  pre 
sence  of  the  danger  of  which  he  saw  the  full  extent 
without  a  hope  to  rescue  her*  The  panic  was  now 
fully  communicated  to  Emilie.  The  shouts  above  and 
below  confounded  her,  without  conveying  any  distinct 
intimation  to  her  mind.  Already  her  foot  was  on 
some  loose  stones  that  projected  over  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  and  only  half  sustained  by  the  earth  in 
which  they  were  embedded,  must  be  dislodged  by  the 
slightest  force.  She  felt  them  sliding  from  beneath 
her  feet,  and  made  one  more  leap  forward,  but  there 


286  CLARENCE;    OR 

the  support  was  still  more  treacherous — the  stones 
gave  way  at  the  first  touch  of  her  foot,  and  she  felt 
herself  sinking  with  them.  Instinctively  she  stretch 
ed  out  her  arms,  and  grasped  a  bough  of  hanging 
cedar  that  depended  over  the  cliff.  Her  hold  was 
too  weak  to  sustain  the  weight  of  her  body,  and  yet 
tenacious  enough  to  check  her  descent.  Many  feet, 
sheer  down  the  precipice  she  went,  her  hands  slip 
ping  near  to  the  extremity  of  the  limb  where  though 
scarcely  as  thick  as  a  common  sized  rope,  it  yet  sup 
ported  her. 

So  powerful  is  the  instinct  of  self-preservation, 
that  the  most  weak,  and  timid,  and  inexperienced, 
left  alone,  without  any  possibility  of  help  but  in  the 
energy  of  their  own  efforts,  have  manifested  an 
amazing  power  in  perceiving  and  grasping  at  any 
means  of  salvation  from  destruction.  Her  friends 
were  gazing  in  despair.  They  saw  the  limb  swing 
back  from  her  released  grasp,  and  believed  that 
all  was  over.  Not  Randolph,  for  he  had  already 
descended  the  precipice  with  desperate  velocity, 
and  from  below  he  saw  Emilie,  with  the  heaven 
inspired  instinct  that  would  have  guided  a  kid  over 
a  mountain  crag,  gently  release  one  hand  from 
the  bough  and  grasp  some  fibrous  twigs,  that 
shot  out  from  a  fissure  in  the  rock — and  just  where 
she  needed  the  support,  and  where  alone  it  would 
avail  her,  there  was  a  cleft  in  which  she  placed 
her  feet.  One  giddy  glance  she  gave  to  the  preci 
pice  below,  and  the  foaming  abyss  that  lashed 
its  side,  then  turned  her  face,  pressed  her  brow  to 
the  rock,  and  resolutely  closed  her  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  appalling  scene.  Pedrillo  and  Marion  now  ex- 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  281 

plored  the  precipice  with  intense  and  almost  equal 
anxiety,  to  find  some  mode  of  rescuing  her  from  the 
frightful  position,  that  it  was  evident  she  could  not 
long  maintain.  At  the  same  moment  they  perceiv 
ed  a  fissure  in,  or  rather  a  ledge,  of  the-rock,  just  wide 
enough  for  a  possible,  though  most  perilous  passage, 
from  the  platform  from  which  Emilie  had  started  to 
a  place  a  few  feet  below,  and  parallel  to  that  where 
she  now  was.  Both  at  the  same  instant  sprang  to 
wards  the  platform.  Pedrillo  was  nearest  and  first 
attained  it,  and  thus  secured  himself  the  precedence 
on  the  narrow  ledge.  Marion's  satisfaction  at  see 
ing  him  rapidly  approach  Emilie  to  give  her  the  aid, 
which,  if  it  came  not  soon  would  come  too  late,  was 
strangely  mingled  with  disappointment  at  thus  being- 
rendered,  by  the  interposition  of  a  stranger,  useless 
to  her  for  whose  safety  he  would  freely  have  given 
his  life.  But  he  soon  lost  every  other  feeling  in  the 
apprehension  that  some  misstep — some  miscalcu 
lated  aid,  might  farther  endanger  the  life,  that  was 
now  suspended  by  a  single  thread.  Once  or  twice 
Emilie  half  turned  her  face  towards  him.  It  was 
as  pale  as  marble  ;  and  even  at  that  distance,  it  was 
evident  from  a  certain  relaxation  of  attitude,  that 
her  strength  and  courage  were  sinking  away.  What, 
then,  was  his  astonishment  at  seeing  Pedrillo,  after 
reaching  the  extremity  of  the  ledge — the  point 
where,  if  at  all  assistance  was  to  be  given,  stand  for 
a  moment,  survey  the  abyss,  and  then  return  to 
wards  the  platform.  In  an  instant  he  reached  it. 
"  Some  other  mode  must  be  tried,"  he  said,  "  the 
ledge  at  its  extremity  is  inconceivably  narrow — there 
is  not  breadth  enough  for  a  bird's  claw — my  head 


288  CLARENCE;    OR 

became  giddy — at  the  least  attempt  to  aid  Miss  Lay- 
ton  I  must  have  lost  my  balance,  and  we  should  have 
been  precipitated  into  the  abyss.  Follow  me,  sir," 
he  continued,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  a  right  to 
command  ;  "  there  are  persons  at  the  shantee  who 
can  help  us — ropes  must  be  let  down — there  is  no 
time  to  be  lost." 

"  Not  an  instant,"  said  Marion,  "  and  but  one 
way  to  save  her ;"  and  he  passed  on  to  the  ledge, 
with  the  evident  determination  '  to  do,  or  die.' 

"Oh  stop! — my  brother — Randolph,  stop!" 
cried  Augusta  Marion,  who,  with  Gertrude,  had 
attained  the  platform,  and  was  standing  there,  both 
most  agitated  witnesses  of  the  whole  scene. 

But  Randolph  would  not  heed  her;  and  Gertrude, 
with  a  firmness  that  was  a  guardian  angel  in  all  exi 
gencies,  followed  Marion  saying,  "  I  am  sure  I  can 
give  your  brother  assistance — I  am  used  to  these 
rocks — be  calm,  Miss  Marion,  and  do  not  look 
at  us." 

"  Noble  creature !  God  help  them!"  ejaculated 
the  terrified  sister,  and  clasping  her  hands  she  sunk 
on  her  knees  ;  but  her  lips  did  not  move — her  heart 
scarcely  beat — her  whole  soul  was  fixed  in  one 
intent  breathless  interest. 

But  what  was  her  suffering  to  that  of  the  father, 
who  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff  and  saw  Gertrude, 
she  in  whom  all  his  affections  and  every  hope  were 
concentrated,  voluntarily  place  her  life  in  peril ;  and 
that  peril,  to  his  view,  aggravated  by  the  distance 
and  depth  below  him.  ! 

In  the  mean  time,  Pedrillo  mounted  the  rocks, 
intent  on  his  own  project  of  rescuing  Emilie.  He 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  289 

had  not  proceeded  far,  when  his  little  dog,  Triton, 
who  seemed  to  have  become  aware  that  danger  per 
vaded  the  place,  sprang  yelping  after  him  and  be 
fore  him,  as  if  to  arrest  his  progress.  Pedrillo,  in 
his  eagerness,  stumbled  over  him  and  fell ;  and  in 
his  fall  he  sprained  his  ankle  so  as  to  be  utterly  dis 
abled,  and  was  obliged  to  crawl  back  to  the  plat 
form,  and  there  endure  an  irritation  of  mind  that  far 
surpassed  the  anguish  inflicted  by  his  hurt,  though 
that  was  by  no  means  trifling.  His  love  for  Emi- 
lie  was  the  strongest  and  tenderest  sentiment  of  which 
he  was  capable,  and  he  was  now  condemned  to  re 
main  in  utter  inaction,  and  see  her  beautiful  form 
mutilated,  crushed,  destroyed  ;  or,  an  ide-a  scarcely 
more  tolerable,  see  her  saved  from  this  perdition  by 
the  superior  devotion  and  skill  of  this  young  stran 
ger  rival. 

Has  Dante  described  a  penal  suffering  more  acute 
than  Pedrillo's  ? 

Marion,  closely  followed  by  Gertrude,  soon 
reached  the  extremity  of  the  ledge.  He  seemed  not 
even  to  perceive  the  danger  from  which  Pedrillo  had 
retreated.  Emilie  was  not  conscious  of  his  ap 
proach  till  he  pronounced  her  name.  She  then 
looked  towards  him  with  speechless  agony.  Her 
deathly  paleness,  the  nervous  convulsion  of  her  fea 
tures,  and  the  tremulous  motion  of  her  whole  body 
struck  a  panic  to  his  heart. ,  His  eye  turned  to 
Gertrude.  "  Oh  God  !"  he  murmured.  His  voice 
and  look  expressed  his  utter  despair. 

"  Becalm,"  she  replied,  "  we  can  save  her — I  am 
sure  of  it — only  be  firm.  Emilie — Emilie,"  she 
added,  in  an  almost  cheerful  voice,  "  be  resolute  for 

VOL.  I.  25 


290  CLARENCE;    OR 

one  minute  more,  and  you  will  be  safe."  Again 
Emilie  turned  her  head,  and  still  she  looked  like  a 
dying  victim  on  the  rack.  Gertrude  did  not  venture 
to  raise  her  eye  to  her.  With  the  inspiration  of  heroic 
courage  and  devotion,  she  bent  her  whole  mind  to  the 
action.  Not  a  thought  was  spared  to  fear  or  dan 
ger.  "You  see,"  she  said  to  Marion,  taking  her 
hands  from  the  rock  and  standing  upright  with  a 
careless  freedom  of  attitude,  "  you  see  I  have  ample 
space  for  my  feet.  I  stand  with  as  perfect  security 
here,  as  on  a  parlor-floor.  Here  too,  are  some 
twigs  above  me,  by  which  I  can  hold.  My  posi 
tion  is  firm  and  safe.  "  You" — she  continued,  de 
pressing  her  voice  to  the  lowest  audible  tone — 
"you  have  a  narrow,  precarious  foot-hold  ;  but  by 
grasping  my  hand  you  may  secure  your  balance. 
Now  consider  how  you  can  get  Emilie  where  we 
are." 

Gertrude's  self-possession  and  intrepidity  inspirited 
Marion.  "  We  can  save  her,"  he  exclaimed,  if  she 
will  let  us.  Do  you  speak  to  her — I  cannot." 

"  My  dear  Emilie,"  she  said,  "  the  danger  is 
already  past,  if  you  will  think  so.  Fix  your 
eye  on  us,  and  mind  Mr.  Marion's  directions." 
The  poor  girl  felt  already  the  inspiration  of  hope. 
She  did  as  she  was  directed,  and  as  she  turned  her 
face  towards  them,  they  perceived  she  was  much 
less  frightfully  pale  and  agitated.  Marion  gave  one 
hand  to  Gertrude,  and  extending  the  other,  "  place 
your  feet,"  he  said,  "  Emilie  in  my  hand.  It  is  as 
firm  as  if  it  were  braced  with  irons — keep  your 
hands  upon  the  rocks — they  will  support  and  ba 
lance  you.  One  single  yard  from  this  spot,  and 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES. 


291 


you  will  be  in   perfect  safety."     Once  Emilie  ad 
vanced  her  foot,  and  withdrew   it.     "  Do  not  draw 
back,  Emilie,"  cried  Gertrude   and  Marion  in  one 
breath — ';  do  not  draw  back — fear  nothing — keep 
hold  of  the  twigs  till  your  feet  are  firmly  placed."  She 
did  so — they  retreated  one  step.     Marion's  hand  was 
firm  and  unbending  as  adamant — another  step — and 
another,  and  Marion  slowly  depressed  his  hand,  and 
Emilie' s  feet  were  on   the  rock,  on  the  same  level 
with  his.     Not  one  word  was  spoken.     He  placed 
his  arm  around  her,  and  thus  sustained  her,  trem 
bling  like  an  aspen  leaf,  to  the  platform,  and  there 
she  sank  on  his   bosom,  and  both  lost  all  thought 
and  feeling,    save    an  obscure   but  most  delicious 
consciousness  of  safety  and  love.     How  long  they 
remained  thus  they   knew  not.     What  mortal  art 
can  measure  or  define  such  moments  ?     They  seem 
to  partake  of  the  immortal  essence  of  the  high  feel 
ing  infused  into  them — to  belong  to  eternity. 

Gertrude  had  passed  the  platform,  and  gone  to 
meet  her  father,  whom  she  saw  approaching.  In 
his  arms  she  was  now  folded,  receiving  all  the  ex 
pression  he  could  give  to  his  joy,  and  pride,  and 
gratitude,  and  love. 

Pedrillo  had  withdrawn  a  little  from  the  plat 
form,  and  though  he  still  stood  near  Emilie  and 
Marion,  they  were  unconscious  of  his  proximity. 
With  a  feeling  that  she  was  now  all  his  own,  Ma 
rion  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  brow.  Pedrillo  started 
forward,  "  Miss  Layton,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice 
of  passion,  "  have  you  forgotten  ?" — He  paused, 
ff  the  rocks  had  yawned  to  engulf  her,  Emilie  would 


CLARENCE;  OR 

not  have  been  more  shocked.  She  became  as  agi 
tated  as  when  she  hung  over  the  abyss.  A  more 
dreadful  abyss,  was  present  to  her  imagination. 
She  shrunk  away  from  Marion,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  impertinent  intru 
sion  ?"  demanded  Marion. 

"Impertinent!"  retorted  Pedrillo,  "and  what 
name  do  you  give,  sir,  to  the  advantage  you  have 
taken  of  the  accidental  service  rendered  to  my 
affianced  wife  ?" 

There  was  an  assurance  in  Pedrillo's  voice  and 
manner  that  left  little  to  be  hoped.     Marion  turned 
a  look  on  Emilie  that  said  every  thing — he  spoke 
but  one  word,  "  Emilie  ?" 
"  It  is  all  true,"  she  replied. 
"  Would  to  God  then  we  had  perished  together  Jn 
A  check  was  now  put  upon  the  expression  of  the 
excited  feeling  of  all  parties.     Mr.   Clarence  ap 
proached.    Emilie's  face  was  covered  and  leaning  on 
Miss  Marion's  shoulder,  who,  half  comprehending, 
and  fully  pitying  her,  sustained   her  in  her  arms. 
"My   poor    little    Emilie,"    said     Mr.    Clarence, 
tenderly  embracing  her,    "  I  do   not  wonder  you 
cannot  get  over  this  dreadful  fright.     We  must  get 
you  home  to  your  mother.     Where's  Marion  ?  Ah, 
there  he  goes,  running  away  from  our  compliments. 
It  was  a  knightly  feat,  but  he  should  not  withdraw 
till  the  '  fair  ladye'  is  in  her  bower  again." 

And  how  to  get  the  ladies  to  their  bower  again 
was  the  next  consideration  ;  but  as  this  was  achieved 
by  ordinary  means,  we  shall  not  detain  our  readers 
with  the  details. 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  293 

The  ladies  were  all,  of  course,  compelled  by  Mr. 
Clarence'  tender  watchfulness  over  their  health  to  re 
tire  for  repose.  Gertrude  was  relieved  from  a  vain 
attempt  to  compose  her  spirits,  by  an  urgent  request 
from  Mrs.  Layton  that  she  would  come  to  her  room. 
She  received  her  with  extravagant  demonstrations  of 
joy  and  tenderness.  Flattering  as  they  were,  they 
awakened  a  passing  query  in  Gertrude's  mind  why 
the  pleasure  that  was  so  fervent  had  been  so  long 
deferred.  "  My  precious  Gertrude,"  began  Mrs. 
Layton,  after  the  first  greetings  were  over,  "  you 
may  have  some  faint  idea  how  much  1  have  suffered 
for  the  last  ten  days,  from  the  fact  of  my  not  being 
able  to  see  you.  It  is  hard  for  one  who  has 
Heaven's  chartered  freedom  of  mind,  to  be  bound  by 
the  stern  fatalism  of  circumstances.  I  can  only 
allude  to  certain  affairs.  If  I  were  at  liberty  I 
should  open  my  heart  to  you,  Gertrude,  of  all  per 
sons  in  the  world ;  but  you  already  know  enough 
from  my  poor  Em'  to  imagine  my  relief  from  having 
the  evil  day  put  off." 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  it  is 
then  put  off." 

"  Of  course — Pedrillo  is  unable  to  move — 
what  a  frightful  predicament  poor  Em'  was  in,  on 
those  rocks ;  and  she  tells  me,  you  behaved  so  sweetly, 
Gertrude.  By  the  way,  dearest,  do  tell  me  some 
thing  of  this  young  Marion  who  enacted  the 
hero  to-day — rather  officiously,  I  think — I  am 
provoked  that  he  should  thrust  himself  forward, 
and  deprive  Pedrillo  of  such  an  opportunity  of 
rendering  Emilie  a  romantic  service."  Gertrude  in- 


CLARENCE  ;    OR 

ferred  from  the  light  tone,  in  which  Mrs.  Laytou 
*poke  of  the  affair,  that  she  was  not  at  all  aware  of 
Emilie's  hair-breadth  escape,  and  she  described  the 
frightfulness  of  her  danger,  Pedrillo's  attention  to 
his  own  safety,  and  Marion's  devotion  to  the  single 
object  of  Emilie's  preservation.  Mrs.  Layton  lis 
tened  with  great  apparent  interest,  expressed  her  sur 
prise  that  Emilie  had  been  so  incommunicative, 
and  concluded  by  saying,  she  supposed  "  the  poor 
child  had  been  scared  out  of  her  wits.  She  scarce 
ly  spoke  to  me  after  her  return  ;  and  said,  she  should 
lie  down  in  her  own  room,  and  begged  not  to  be 
disturbed—she  is  taking  an  honest  nap  I  have  no 
doubt — she  is  just  like  her  father — I  should  not 
have  slept  for  a  month,  after  such  an  affair.  Well,  it 
is  fortunate  for  her.  that  she  has  so  little  imagination. 
It  will  make  small  difference  to  her,  who  enacts  the 
hero — she  is  not  like  you  and  me,  Gertrude  ;  she 
never  will  suffer  the  sad,  sad  experience  of  a  heart 
of  sensibility,  its  cravings,  its  yearnings,  its  un 
bounded  desires,  its  vain  regrets — No,  no,  Emilie's 
life  will  flow  on,  as  the  scripture  has  it,  like  still  wa 
ters  in  green  pastures." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Layton,  I  am  afraid  your  expecta 
tions  are  too  sanguine.  Her  childhood  has  been 
serene,  but  to  pursue  your  figure,  the  stream  that  is 
destined  to  frightful  precipices,  may  hold  its  infant 
course  through  flowery  and  still  pastures." 

"  It  may ;  but  we  are  misled,  by  talking  figura 
tively.  The  fact  is,  I  see,  (  for  I  am  not  blinded  by 
maternal  affection,)  I  see  that  Emilie  is  a  mediocre 
character  ;  if  she  were  not,  would  not  her  own  beau 
ty  excite  her  more  ,?  She  will  just  live  even  on,  con- 


A  TALE  OP  OUR  OWN  TIMES.  295 

tent  with  what  would  be  to  you  and  me,  perfect 
stagnation,  ordinary  connubial  life — it  is  a  safe,  but 
certainly,  not  a  very  alluring  destiny.  Believe  me, 
dearest,  married  life  rarely  affords  much  excitement 
to  the  sensibilities,  or  scope  to  the  imagination." 

Gertrude   shrunk   from   expressing   her   maiden 
meditations,  on  this  subject.     They  were  high  and 
romantic,  or,  might  be  called  so,  by  those  who  are 
fond  of  affiixing  that  doubtfui  epithet,  to  the  aspira 
tions  of  those,  who  modify  their  hopes  by  the  capabili 
ties  of  our  race,  rather  than  graduate  them  by  its  his 
tory.  Mrs.  Layton  guessed  her  thoughts ;  "  My  sweet 
friend,"  she  said,  '« I  see  your  mental  revoltings  from 
my  views  of  life.    Mine  are  the  result  of  my  peculiar 
position  ;  1  am  not  a  philosopher,  and  my  opinions 
are  deduced  from  individual  experience ;  so,  do  not 
let   me    cast   the   shadows   of    my  past,    over  the 
bright   field  of  your  future.     We  will  not  talk  of 
shadows  ;  I  feel  particularly  light-hearted.     As  I 
said  before,  the  evil  day,  which  God  knows  I  have 
done  all  I  could  to   avert,  is  at  any  rate  deferred. 
Pedrillo  has  too  much  respect  for  the  graces,  to  go 
hobbling  to  the  hymeneal  altar.     I  shall  have  time 
to  recruit  my  spirits  ;  and  poor  Em',  to  cultivate  a 
more  tender  sentiment  for  her   suitor.    Indeed,    I 
think  he  ought  to  excite  it ;  he  is  uncommonly  ele 
gant,  and  a  foreigner  ;  and  that  is,  after  all,  an  ad 
vantage  dans  les  petites  affaires  du   coeur.     The 
men  of  our  country,  particularly  our  northern  coun 
try,  are  so  deficient  in  all  the  embellishments — the 
mysterious,  indescribable  little  arts,  that  excite  the  im 
agination  ;  they  are  upright  and  downright — and 
have  such  a  smack  of  home  about  them.     If  they 


!296  CLARENCE;    OR 

reach  the  heart,  it  is  by  the  turnpike-road  of  com 
mon  sense,  not  by  the  obscure,  devious,  mysterious, 
but  delicious  avenue  of  the  imagination.  You  agree 
with  me,  at  least  you  feel  with  me,  Gertrude?" 

"  I  am  listening  to  you,  but  I  really  have  no  opi 
nion  on  the  subject ;  I  have  seen  so  little  of  society, 
that  I  have  made  few  comparisons.  My  predilec 
tion,  I  confess,  is  in  favour  of  my  own  countrymen  ; 
they  may  have  a  less  polished  exterior,  but  they 
seem  to  me,  to  have  more  independence  of  manner, 
more  naturalness,  and  simplicity." 

"  Certainly,  they  have — but  less  of  these  prime 
qualities  than  savages — you  smile,  but  you  will  think 
with  me,  when  you  have  passed  a  winter  in  town — 
the  thing  I  have  set  my  heart  on.  By  the  way, 
poor  Louis  Seton  !  Gertrude,  a  sentiment  is  so  ne 
cessary  to  us ;  so  much  is  it,  as  has  been  said,  the '  his 
tory  of  a  woman's  life,'  that,  shut  up,  as  you  have 
been,  at  Clarenceville,  with  this  '  man  of  feeling/ 
[  am  amazed  you  have  escaped  something  more 
serious  than  a  passing  tendresse.  Now,  no  pro 
testations — susceptibility  is  absolutely  essential  to  an 
attractive  woman.  But  come,  dearest,  one  of  my 
reasons,  though  the  least  urgent,  for  sending  for  you, 
was,  to  beg  you  to  present  me  to  these  Marions.  It 
is  incumbent  on  me,  to  make  my  acknowledgments 
to  our  knight  of  the  rocks." 

The  ladies  proceeded  together  to  the  parlor,  and 
there  learned,  to  Gertrude's  mortification,  and  Mrs. 
Layton's  well  concealed  satisfaction,  that  the  Mari 
ons  had  taken  their  final  departure  from  the  *  rural 
resort,'  half  an  hour  before.  A  servant  gave  Miss 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     297 

Clarence  a  note  from  Miss  Marion ;  it  ran  as  fol 
lows  : 

"  My  dear  Miss  Clarence — I  have  forborne  to 
"  disturb  your  repose  after  your  perilous  adventure, 
"  to  announce  our  abrupt  departure.  Accident  in- 
"  troduced  you  into  our  family  cabinet,  and  as  you 
"  are  apprised  of  its  secrets,  you  will  not  wonder  at 
"  poor  Randolph's  feelings,  in  consequence  of  the 
"  disclosures  of  to-day.  My  heart  pleads  for  Emi- 
"  lie,  but  my  reason  tells  me,  that  it  is  wisest, 
"  discretest,  best,  to  shun  any  farther  intercourse 
"  with  so  beautiful  a  creature,  who  is  so  careless  of 
"  obligations  and  consequences.  Depend  on  it, 
"  Miss  Clarence,  I  am  right  in  my  opinion  of  the 
"  mother;  and  though  I  grieve  to  say  it,  poor  Emi- 
"  lie  has  bad  blood  in  her  veins.  I  am  sustaining 
"  the  part  of  a  rigid  moralist  with  Randolph,  while 
"  my  womanish  heart  is  melting  within  me.  I  can- 
"  not  regard  the  sweet  girl  in  any  other  light,  than 
"'as  a  victim — the  faults  of  seventeen  are  not  deli- 
"  berate — ^but  I  talk  as  sternly  to  Randolph,  as  if  I 
*'  were  Junius  Brutus.  In  compliance  with  a  kind 
"  invitation  from  your  father,  we  have  promised  to 
"  visit  Clarenceville,  on  our  return  from  Niagara, 
{<  'Till  then,  adieu,  my  dear  Miss  Clarence, 
^  and  allow  me  to  be 

"  your  friend  and  admirer, 
"A.  MARION." 

Pedrillo  was  on  a  sofa  in  the  parlor,  when  the 
ladies  entered  ;  and  while  Gertrude  was  reading  her 
note,  he  and  Mrs.  Layton  were  carrying  on  a  sub 
dued,  but  impassioned  conference ;  the  result  of 


298  CLARENCE;  OR 

which  was  a  request  from  Mrs.  Layton,  that  Miss 
Clarence  would  do  her  the  favour  to  request  Emi- 
lie,  provided  she  found  her  awake  and  sufficiently 
recovered,  to  make  her  appearance  in  the  parlor. 

Gertrude  found  her  friend,  neither  sleeping,  nor 
recovered ;  but  sitting  in  a  most  disconsolate  attitude, 
bending  over  an  open  letter,  which  she  had  drench 
ed  with  her  tears.  "  Oh,  Gertrude  !  she  said,  "  look 
at  this — is  it  not  cruel  ?"  It  was  from  Marion,  and 
began  with  the  text  of  all  disappointed  lovers. 
"  Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  !  Must  I  apply  this 
"  condemnation  to  Ernilie  Layton?  Why  have  I 
"  lived  to  find  that  she,  whom  my  devoted  love 
"  invested  with  perfection,  is  capable  of  delibe- 
"  rate  coquetry.  Am  I  in  my  senses  ?  Could  Emilie 
"  Layton,  she,  who  appeared  full  of  all  kind  and 
"  gentle  thoughts,  could  she,  on  the  eve  of  mar- 
"  riage  with  another,  trifle  with  a  heart  she  knew 
"  was  all  her  own  ?  She  has  done  so — your  own 
"  lips  Emilie,  have  confessed  the  truth — your  vows 
"  are  plighted  to  another — it  is  not  slander — it  is 
"  not  a  dream — again  and  again  I  repeat  the  first 
u  prayer  of  my  pierced  soul,  '  would  that  we  had 
"  perished  together.'  But,  my  sister  waits  for  me  i 
11  she  talks  of  recovered  tranquillity — but  what  tran- 
"  quillity  can  be  in  reversion  for  him,  who  bears  in 
"  his  bosom,  a  poisoned  shaft  ?  the  bitter  remem- 
"  brance  of  her  un worthiness,  to  whom  he  would 
11  have  devoted  his  existence ;  for  whom  he  would 
"  have  encountered  death  itself,  without  a  pang. 
"  Farewell,  Emilie — farewell  for  ever, 

"R.  MARION." 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     299 

Gertrude  quite  forgot  the  errand  on  which  she 
had  come  to  Emilie,  in  her  efforts  to  console  her. 
"I  should  care  for  nothing  else  in  the  wide  world," 
said  the  poor  girl,  "  if  Randolph  only  knew  how 
innocent  I  have  been." 

"  That  he  may  know  in  future,  Emilie,  but  at 
,present  " 

"  Oh  I  know  I  must  not  vindicate  myself— I  must 
suffer,  and  suffer  in  silence,  and  if  my  heart  breaks 
I  must  not  tell  him  that  I  loved  him — loved  him 
with  far  truer  love  than  his  ;  for  I  never  would  have 
believed  any  evil  of  him.  I  did  not  know  till  now — 
indeed,  Gertrude,  I  did  not,  that  1  loved  Randolph. 
I  knew  that  I  was  always  thinking  of  him,  but  I  did 
not  know  that  was  love.  1  knew  that  I  felt  restless 
away  from  him,  even  with  you,  and  happy  if  I  were 
but  near  him  without  speaking,  and  without  hearing 
his  voice ;  but  I  did  not  know  that  was  love.  Even 
on  that  dreadful  rock,  Gertrude,  I  felt  that  I  had 
rather  be  swallowed  up  in  the  ab\  ss  than  be  saved 
by  Pedrillo,  when  Randolph  was  so  near  to  me, 
and  yet  I  did  not  know  that  was  love.  But  when 
Mr.  Pedrillo  claimed  me,  and  Randolph  pronounced 
my  name,  then  the  whole  truth  flashed  on  me  ;  and 
yet  I  had  better  die  than  speak  the  one  true  word  to 
Randolph.  And  with  this  on  my  heart  I  must  go 
to  the  altar  with  Mr.  Pedrillo — and  very  soon  too 
— mama  hinted  that  to-day." 

"  Not  soon,  Emilie — perhaps  never.  Mr.  Pe 
drillo  was  maimed  on  the  rocks,  and  he  has  himself 
deferred  the  marriage." 

"  Thank    heaven !    but  what   reason    is   there. 


300  CLARENCE;  OR 

Gertrude,  to  hope  this  detested  marriage  may  never 
take  place  ?" 

"  Every  tiling  future,  Emilie,  is  uncertain — every 
thing — but  that  if  you  disclose  to  your  mother  the 
actual  state  of  your  feelings,  she  will  herself  break 
off  this  engagement." 

"  Never — never,  Gertrude.  Mama  has  reasons 
that  she  does  not  tell  me.  She  never  would  have 
made  me  write  that  solemn  promise  to  papa,  if  it 
were  not  necessary  to  perform  it.  I  do  not  know 
how  I  could  do  it,  only  that  I  always  have  to  do 
every  thing  mama  wishes.  Mama  was  so  sure  I 
should  like  Mr.  Pedrillo,  and  I  thought  she  knew 
best.  I  did  not  hate  him  then — but  now  the  very 
thought  of  him  makes  me  shiver." 

Gertrude  was  well  aware  that  Mrs.  Layton  would 
not  wish  Emilie  to  show  herself  to  Pedrillo  in  her 
present  state  of  mind,  and  after  ministering  all  pos 
sible  consolations  to  her,  she  undertook  to  make  her 
apology  to  her  mother.  She  received  it  with  the 
best  grace  possible.  Not  so  Pedrillo.  His  cup  of 
irritations  was  full,  and  one  added  drop  made  it 
overflow.  He  wrought  himself  first  into  a  passion, 
and  then  into  a  fever,  which  produced  so  violent 
an  inflammation  in  his  wounded  limb,  that  on  the 
following  morning  the  physician  gave  his  profes 
sional  opinion  that  the  gentleman  might  be  detain 
ed  at  Trenton  several  weeks.  In  this  state  of  affairs 
Mrs.  Laytou  felt  her  position  to  be  rather  awkward; 
and  she  and  Emilie,  after  a  tender  parting  with 
Gertrude,  took  their  departure  for  New  York. 

Mr.  Clarence  and  Gertrude  were  still  detained  at 
Trenton  for  some  weeks.  Seton's  convalescence 


A  TALE  OF  OUR  OWN  TIMES.     301 

was  slow  and  imperfect,  and  his  melancholy  con 
tinued,  like  an  incubus,  in  spite  of  all  their  efforts 
to  alleviate  it.  When  his  health  was  sufficiently 
restored  to  bear  a  removal,  Mr.  Clarence  proposed, 
that  instead  of  returning  to  Clarenceville,  he  should 
proceed  to  New  York,  and  there  embark  for  Italy, 
where  in  a  genial  climate,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  his 
art,  he  might  regain  his  health  and  happiness.  Mr. 
Clarence,  who  seemed  always  to  regard  his  fortune 
as  a  trust  for  others,  assured  him  that  he  should  place 
at  his  disposal  a  sum  that  would  render  his  residence 
abroad,  easy  and  respectable.  Seton  heard  him 
without  reply,  but  with  evident  emotion. 

On  the  following  morning  they  were  to  leave 
Trenton.  Seton  did  not  appear  at  breakfast.  Mr. 
Clarence  went  to  his  room,  and  found  that  he  had 
gone,  and  had  left  a  note  addressed  to  him.  It 
was  full  of  expressions  of  gratitude  and  tenderness 
to  Mr.  Clarence  and  Gertrude  ;  but  it  was  most 
afflicting  to  see  that  those  sentiments,  whose  essence 
seems  to  be  happiness,  were  so  transmuted  in  his 
distempered  mind,  that  sweet  fountains  distilled 
bitter  waters. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  seek  to  prolong  a  burden 
some  existence  ?  He  was  a  weed  driven  on  the 
tempestuous  waves — the  idle  sand  blown  over  the 
desert  of  life.  He  cast  a  blight  on  every  thing 
about  him."  The  note  was  written  in  the  deepest 
despondency,  and  concluded  with  a  request  that  no 
inquiry  might  be  made  after  him,  and  a  most  affect 
ing  and  eternal  farewell. 

This  request  was  so  far  from  being  complied  with, 
that  Mr.  Clarence  instituted  the  most  assiduous  in- 

VOL.  I.  26 


302          CLARENCE,  ETC. 

quiries.  He  traced  him  to  Utica,  but  no  farther. 
His  family  connections  knew  nothing  of  him,  and 
Mr.  Clarence  and  Gertrude  were  driven  to  the  hor 
rible  conclusion  that  he  had  committed  the  last  ac* 
of  despair. 


END  OF  VOL.  I 


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U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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